House of Cards
by Why Fireflies Flash
Summary: She was a liar. She told her best friend that she left London for the change in scenery, when really, she had to go away for a long time and maybe permanently. Meredith Wilder, a NYPD detective who has gotten herself deported back to England, where she has to hide who she really is. But under Sherlock Holmes' nose, it would be difficult. Sherlock/OC Rating may change.
1. Prologue

_Hello! I'm very new to the Sherlock fandom, but I've been itching to write a fanfiction for it for a bit. Not going to bore you with a long author's note like I do in my other stories, but I hope you enjoy it :). I'm really posting it to see the reaction since I can hardly wait for it to be done to post it, even if that's easier for me. So, I hope you do enjoy the House of Cards, my very new and first Sherlock/OC fanfiction, and enjoy my OC, Meredith Wilder._

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own BBC Sherlock, or any of the amazing bits and pieces of all Sherlock things. I wish I did, but I don't. I do own characters that you do not recognize like Meredith Wilder and Carter Smith, an the other plot details that aren't recognizable._

_Summary: She was a liar. She told her best friend that she left London for the change in scenery, when really, she had to go away for a long time and maybe permanently. Meredith Wilder, a NYPD detective who has gotten herself deported back to England, where she has to hide who she really is. But under Sherlock Holmes' nose and being a detective herself in Scotland Yard, is that really so easy? Sherlock/OC_

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**Prologue: The Science of Deduction**

"_She spent an astonishing amount of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distributing literature for the Junior Anti-Sex League, preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said; it was camouflage. If you kept the small rules you could break the big ones." -George Orwell, 1984_

"What the hell is this?" I take the laptop off of Carter's lap and put it on top of the small table that is offered on this godforsaken plane. At least the flight is almost over. He lets out a squeal of protest, or what sounds like a squeal to me, and goes to take it away. I quickly punch him in the arm the hardest I could to get him away from me. I narrow my eyes at the title of the web page. "_The Science of Deduction_ by Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing looking at this?" I glance over at him, he has a defeated expression on his face as I scroll down the page.

Carter explains, "I'm a detective. I'm just reading up on this stuff so I can be good at my job." I turn my head to him again, I can just feel my face twisting at the sound of this.

"Yes, you are a detective. You should already be good at this stuff. In fact, you've been my partner for three years, haven't you learned anything from me?" I ask him curiously. He has been my partner for three years and a detective for five, and he still has to look at this website like he is some beginner? I chuckle lightly when he doesn't answer and turn back to the laptop. I read the description, "'I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only _consulting_ detective.' Oh, that sounds fancy. 'I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you don't understand it. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please.'"

"Okay, you've had your fun, can I have—?"

"Oh no, I'm just getting started. 'This is what I do: 1. I observe everything. 2. From what I observe, I deduce everything. 3. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.' The bloke just contradicted himself. He said that he wasn't going to go into detail about how he does what he does because we wouldn't understand."

"No, he didn't go into detail about what he does. So he never contradicted himself. Now, can I have it—?"

"Why are you even looking at this anyway?" I inquire to him curiously, ignoring every word that he says to me. I didn't mean to interrupt him talking though. "You're a good detective. In New York, you solved dozens of cases without my help and yet you are looking at a website of a _consulting detective_. An amateur."

"He is hardly an amateur."

"Oh, really?" I ask him. "Tell me, have you ever heard of a consulting detective?"

"No."

"Exactly. It's a made up profession." I say proving my point. I go to look at some more of it, preferably to the forum since that is where he probably gets contacted, but Carter takes his laptop back within his hands. "Oi!"

"Just look at this," Carter says to me. I grit my teeth somewhat annoyed as he goes to a panel on the top of it. I look away seeing the flight attendant come over to where we are. We are almost in London, I think, maybe just about an hour left. I feel like I'm about to pass out even though I did take a nap moments ago that lasted three hours. Carter's fingers typing woke me up. He had to go and bring his laptop on this flight, couldn't he have just brought a really long book to pass the bloody time or perhaps... I don't know, _sleep_? He pulls up a page with a bunch of scrambled letters. "I bet not even you can decipher that."

"'This is one for the internet geeks out there. 'Anonymous' has been in touch: 'I've emailed you a little message. A little game to play. I do like games.' And he has indeed emailed me.'"

"Is it necessary for you to read out the heading?" Carter asks me almost sounding a little exasperated. I barely look up at him as I silently then read the email. _Dearest Sherlock, A Roman Emperor will help you work out what this means. DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF. xx. _I lean my head back and rub my chin. My forehead crinkles as I stare down the many letterings there. "See? You have to think about it and you're good with codes."

"I only just read it, now shut up so I can think it through." I scowl at him. The flight attendant finally makes it to us, I try to block out her annoying voice while I tell her quickly, "Whiskey, please. Your strongest."

"Scotch is fine?"

"That'll do." I go back to looking at the code. Roman emperor. There are Julius Caesar, Maximian, Augustus, Constantine I, and Justinian I... well those are the well _known_ emperors. Julius Caesar is the most well known though. He is what people first think when they hear the word _Roman _and I think there is a code that is associated with him.

"No, no scotch." I hear Carter next to me. I look away from his laptop and stare at him in disbelief. The flight attendant is still next to me? "Get her some juice or soda or something."

"What kind of juice?"

"Just get me the scotch." I say to her annoyed before looking back at the code and going back in my head. From the corner of my eye, I see Carter actually mouth to the poor flight attendant 'apple juice,' throwing in a small wink to her before stating to her what he wanted. I chose to ignore it. Julius Caesar... was more of a dictator of Rome than an emperor (yes, there is a difference) and he was assassinated on March 15th, marked on the Roman Calendar as the _Ides of March. _"I need the scotch." I tell Carter as I calculate in my head the code. I think I have gotten it.

"You don't need to add to your drinking problem." Carter remarks, going into his carry-on bag and taking out the New York Times that he had gotten earlier. It looks like he hasn't opened it yet.

"It helps me think."

"It's going to give you liver disease."

"Obviously, I don't care." I comment to him. "Give me some paper please and a pen." Carter looks at me confused for a moment before I nod over to the screen with my head. He mouths an 'oh' like he didn't expect me to figure this out so fast. It isn't that hard if you paid attention in your history class. Carter goes into his carry on bag to take out the piece of paper and pen while I wait patiently for him to do so. My fingers beat against the small table, I can feel the plane descend about a foot underneath my feet. "Hurry."

"Patience is a virtue."

"And I don't have it." Soon he picks up his head and gives me the lovely paper and pen. I take it from him and take the pen in my hand. I move the paper more in front of me, copying down the letters on the computer screen and having Carter look over every move I make. "Did you ever figure this one out?" I inquire to him curiously. My guess is no, or else he wouldn't have told me that I would never figure this out myself. Obviously he was wrong. I figured it out in less than five minutes.

"No." See? Told you. "Did you?"

"It's simple." I tell him honestly. I translate the code underneath the letters. "It's called a Caesar cipher. I figured it out by it saying Roman Emperor, and the only Roman Emperor that everyone in this bloody planet knows, or at least heard of, is Caesar." I explain to him. "The Ides of March is on March 15th, when Caesar was assassinated—thank you." Interrupted by the presence of a glass with a cheesy little napkin around it, I take it quickly in my hand and sip it. The woman reaches over me and to give the other glass to Carter. Carter tries to catch her eye by doing something irritatingly weird, I don't pay attention. She doesn't either, she just walks away from our seats. I can only imagine the sullen look on Carter's face as he slumps in his seat. "I hate apple juice."

Carter shakes his head, picking up the glass in his hand and staring off after where the flight attendant has gone. "It's better than the scotch that you wanted. Now, go on."

I put the juice down as I continue to translate the letters. "Well, Julius Caesar, fifteen, letters. It's pretty self explanatory. You don't need to be a genius. You just go down the alphabet fifteen letters with each letter." I stop writing for a moment and gesture to the first word. Carter's eyes look down at it puzzled, "See, the first word is 'Sherlock' which comes from this lettering. Fifteen letters down from D is S, and it goes on from there. If it starts at S, then you go back to the beginning and get H. It's simple."

"Okay, so what does it say?"

"I'm not translating every single letter, Carter Arthur Smith." I say to him. I push the paper toward him and move my table up since I won't be needing it any more after this. Carter nearly sneers at the sound of his full name as I lean my head back and close my eyes. "You can do that for me."

"We have all flight—."

"We only have an hour left, Carter." I tell him, moving my head more comfortably to the side, only having to have it tilted slightly. No matter how uncomfortable this seat is, I found my comfort spot, the first time in hours actually. "I am going to get some more shut eye. Since you've been obnoxiously up the whole flight over the pond, maybe this could get your eyes tired enough before you go on your returning flight after you have dropped me off at that smelly deportation hotel made for illegal immigrants like me apparently."

"You weren't—aren't—illegal. You only forgot to renew your green card."

"And my ex-fiancé was kind enough to report me." I smirk with a snicker. I really do hate that wanker, thankfully I don't have to see his face ever again. "By American standards, I am illegal in those United States of America. Like half of the other population in the US of A."

"Don't say that. You just got unlucky."

"I'm always unlucky, don't you know that already?"

"I don't think you are though." I soften my face at that and open my eyes to look over at him. His head is hovering over the paper as he writes under the letters. I can see him mouthing the alphabet under his breath and counting on his fingers. I smile softly, I'm really going to miss this. Him and I, sitting like this. Our small arguing and bickering, and of course all the times we shared. There's not going to be many now. Carter did say that he would visit me in London often, but... I know that in these times, that could be hard for someone like him to do. I look away from him and close my eyes almost painfully tight.

I almost fall asleep in the silence we are in. But ten minutes of just trying to sleep, made me stay awake. Fifteen minutes later, I hear Carter actually come up with the translation of the code. "'Sherlock, I am watching you.'"

"Very good."

"Did you know it already?"

"No." I smirk over at him, opening my eyes. "It makes sense. Obviously, your _consulting_ _detective_ has a stalker." At that, Carter chuckles and soon I join in with him. For a moment, I think we sort of forgot that we are going to be separated after this. "So, Mr. Smith," I say, "do you know if your Sherlock Holmes solved this yet?"

"Yes he did."

"How long ago?"

"He posted this up a week ago, but it doesn't say how long it took him. I think he only did it to see if we can do it... well, not us. The people who look at his website." Carter explains to me. Well, if I ever do meet Sherlock Holmes, which would probably not happen, I will be sure to ask him how long it took him. I will be horribly disappointed though if it took him a week, I took me less than five minutes. Although, I did specialize with decoding while on the NYPD. It is something that I know perfectly well. I helped a lot of detectives with decoding codes and translating words. "Meredith?" I look over at Carter with my eyebrow raised. "I'm just curious, are you going to continue being a detective?"

I don't answer him right away. "I might just own a shop. I don't have to be a detective again." I will be out of luck without my good ol' partner, Carter. I may seem the more intelligent of us, but without him... I'm actually really lost. It has crossed my mind, of course. Being a detective in Scotland Yard, but it just doesn't seem right to me without my partner, call it loyalty. And that work is so life consuming, I couldn't have a relationship because I was already married to something called work. And I was quite the workaholic in New York. But... I loved it, it was better than I what I used to do. Still do, but I don't know if I would ever go back to it. "I always wanted to own a shop."

"A shop?"

"I'll sell antiques," I state. "Besides, you were... the best partner a detective could have," I say to him with a smirk. Carter shakes his head at that and my smirk grows fondly to him. I gently place my hand on top of his elbow. "I'm quite serious. Without you being my partner, I don't think I could really survive there. You taught me all the New York casualties. Like walking like you're in a hurry, and what places to not get Chinese Food, oh and of course you showed me which hot dog stands are _not_ disgusting."

"Those are things that everyone should know," Carter says to me. I look directly in his brown eyes and chuckle lightly. Carter is a handsome guy if you really look at him. He has a small face, with a thin, but not long, nose, and a chiselled jaw that has a little bit of blonde stubble. He also has blonde curls on the top of his head, sitting there not at all askew or messed around with. His brown eyes are also quite mesmerizing if you catch yourself staring into them for quite a while. During my first week with the force I almost found it hard focusing whenever he was around me. "I was doing a good service."

"Samaritan now, are we? Okay, don't take that compliment, be modest, but know you would always have a special place in my heart."

"You should work for Scotland Yard," Carter says to me with a small smile. I look over at him, exchanging a smile of my own as he moves his armrest up in between us. His arm extends around my shoulders, bringing me closer to him and I slowly lay my head on top of him. "You'll do great. You were one of the best detectives in New York and you _are_ somewhat amazing with cases. And I don't think you know anything about antiques."

"You'd be surprised then." I chuckle lightly. He has never really entered my apartment, every where you look there is some antique that I have. My favourite one, is something my mother had won in an auction. It's a beautiful necklace that plunges down over the neckline with a single blue stone that is so small, almost the size of the pad of my index finger. Around it is a circle of diamonds, that if the sun hits it right you can see part of a rainbow with them. And my wooden dresser, bookshelves, and even coffee table, are all made from the 19th century. I actually got a good deal on them. "I don't know, we'll see. I might figure it out in that smelly deportation inn that they are shipping me off to. Well, that you are dropping me off at."

"You don't even know if it is smelly yet."

"I know, I'm assuming it. Carter, you will keep in touch with me right? I know how hard it is and how expensive it is."

"No money in the world can stop my call to check in on you once a month, I'll send mail, and there is also a thing called texting nowadays. Ever heard of it?" Carter says. I shake my head against his chest and I feel it fall down and rise quickly as he laughs in my ear. "And I'll visit every year."

"Like Garrett would let you do that." I remark. Our Captain, with his fat pink face and his cigar often bit down in between his gritted teeth, and his massive bald spot on the top of his head, barely being covered by his black toupee (the black toupee often contrasted with the little grey hair that he had), hated me. Probably still does. I don't know what I ever did to him, but when I first came to New York, he had me doing paperwork because I could be sometimes... rude. I don't know how he got that idea though. I'm just outspoken sometimes.

"I'll get him to agree to it, don't worry about that." He would never, and if he did... I'll be utterly surprised. But hopefully, Carter can pull something together so he _could_ visit me in London. "Meredith, why did you leave here in the first place? You... never actually told me." My eyes were only just beginning to close when he asks that, but now, they widen open. I gulp to myself and don't dare pick up my head to look at him directly. I decide on not answering at first, maybe that will get him away from the question. "Mere?" He prompts. He doesn't really need to know the details of it though...

I decide against telling him the truth. My best friend doesn't need to know what I did in London, when I left uni. It isn't necessary... in fact, you who are reading into my every thoughts and moves right now, hardly need to know what I really want to tell him. The _truth_. He may find out eventually. Hell, if you get me drunk enough, hung me over a cliff, and threatened my life, it may just make me spill out my whole life story to you. I may actually tell him at some point in my life. In my death bed, but still...

"I'm sorry, I'm drifting off," I apologize quickly as I pick up my head slightly. I flash him a quick smile, a very faint smile, and lie directly to his face, "I only needed a change in scenery."

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I was right on the plane. The smelly deportation hotel smells horribly for somewhere in the heart of London. After I lug my bags to my room, I fumble with the keys. Dropping my bags and almost my keys along with them, I push the one the lady gave me before in the lock. Apparently there aren't many staying here, but there are some. I'm not the only Brit who got deported. It actually makes me feel better about myself. The door opens with a creak and I reluctantly push it open with my finger. I swallow before allowing my face to twist and turn. I peek my head in, taking in my room.

It's a deep red, almost a burgundy. The floor is wooden, but it isn't sanded correctly, in fact I see splinters standing up in these floors. Thank God this is only temporarily until I find a flat or a job to get a flat. A flat and a job would be amazing to have right about now. I drag inside the bags with a lot of effort because I really don't feel like carrying them frankly. This hotel doesn't have any WIFI either, which may be a problem for me. I suppose I could always go into the café I used to go on the corner of Baker Street, if it's still there, for dinner and check my e-mails. I'm sure they all had forgotten about me by now, I do look different. A lot different.

Now fully in the room, I get a better look at it. My eyes scan the walls to see it scarcely covered with paintings that obviously got rejected by the _Louve_. One is a cheap imitation of the Mona Lisa, it's not the actual one obviously, but the person who had painted it should have known better than making the infamous half-smile into a complete grin. It ruins its entirety. There is another disgusting looking painting in here, but I won't describe it. I can barely even look at the bloody thing and I'm going to have to since it's across from the bed. I turn my head soon enough to look at the mirror behind me.

Did I mention how much different I look? I frown at the sight in the mirror. My used-to-be-red hair is pulled up in a blonde ponytail, my green eyes now have blue tint to them because of the blue contacts I have chosen to wear. They also have bags under them, but that isn't really different. I scrunch the nose on my face like a rabbit and scrunch it several times. I like this one better. I had a much larger nose, but the best thing about this is that it's smaller and more... natural looking. Kind of ironic, don't you think?

But... there really isn't a trace of _me_ left. All I have on my face that is really mine? My freckles, my cheekbones, and my mouth. Only those three things because with the different nose, I look different enough.

I back away from the mirror, I can barely stand myself right now. I turn my head to look at the somewhat messy bed, the duvet cover is folded and wrinkly on the top of it. Though messy, it's inviting. It feels like I'm floating on a cloud going over to it, I hate how long the flight was, my legs are still wobbling from the amount of sitting I have just done... without any sort of strong liquor to keep me busy. I fall onto that bed sideways, my head hits the lumpy pillow and the smell of old musk and sex comes off of it. My nose scrunches as I close my eyes.

Jet lag. It gets us all that we end up not even _caring_ about the stench of musk and sex stained on top of a lumpy pillow and a hard mattress that could be filled with rocks for all I know. I should be beginning my search for a job and a flat, maybe with a couple of flatmates. I didn't have too many friends back then, nor would I like to see my old friends again. They wouldn't recognize me. Nor would I them. Three years doesn't seem to be a long time, but some people age as if the years are decades. A lot can happen in three years—1,095 days. They could be married and have kids, have a prestigious job, grow a beard, anything really. And what have I done? Become a fugitive, changed my looks & name, get engaged to an arse that started all of my troubles, become a detective, forget to renew my green card and get deported back to England, the very place I was trying to run away from? That sounds like failure to me. I never got caught, I may have been forgotten about, but that doesn't mean that I was successful.

I got fucked over eventually and it wasn't Scotland Yard that did it. It was the man, Paul Ferguson, who _made_ me do it with him. Karma caught up with me and maybe Scotland Yard would pick me up outside tomorrow morning when I go job shopping and give me the time in prison, not for the new detective job interview. But those blokes are sometimes too thick to even tie their shoes correctly.

Once my breathing begins to slow, my eyes begin to tighten shut, and sleep begins to envelop itself around me, my phone rings. My damn _phone_ rings. A loud groan comes out of me and I pick up my head tiredly as I feel the phone in my back pocket vibrating with an obnoxious ringtone of _Thriller_ that I bought for myself three years ago. I ended up hating the song the week after I got it since it was overplayed. But I was too lazy—still am—to change it back to the default, less irritating ringtone.

_Who could be calling me now, _passes through my head. The only people who had my number are Carter, who is on the plane back to New York already, Garrett, who hates me still, a couple of co-workers, who wouldn't give me the time of day, my ex-fiancé, who wants to kill me—somewhat—and who deported me, and his buddy's wife, who is unlikely to call me ever again unless it is to 'catch-up'. A little too soon to catch up, I think. I take the phone out of my pocket, stare at the familiar number not added in my phone, before picking it up as Michael Jackson screams his final 'Thriller.'

"Wilder." I still say it like I work for the NYPD. Force of habit.

"Meredith Wilder?" A professional, English accent asks me. My eyebrow raises and I don't answer him right away. I pull the phone away and look at the number on the phone. It looks familiar, like I should know it all too well. But... I can't even think of where I have seen it or heard of it before. "Ms. Wilder?" The voice says again, pulling me away from my thoughts. I feel a sneer beyond my control come onto my face as I put the phone back on my ear.

"Yes, yes," I say quickly, my voice sounds a little bit annoyed that my sleep is interrupted, "that's me. Meredith Wilder. Who is this?"

"It's Scotland Yard, Ms. Wilder." Amazing. My life couldn't have gotten better. I control my hand from dropping the phone out of my hand.

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_Okay, hope you did enjoy the prologue. :) I haven't written in present tense, first person POV in such a long time. I have to get back in the groove of it. Let me know what you think and whether or not if I should keep writing it :) I would love to hear your opinions, good or bad. Next chapter we'll see our Sherlock ;)_

_P.S. Since right now, I have a lot going on, updates are going to be hard to do :( Real life tends to get in the way of my writing life a little too much._


	2. The Tourist & The Bruised Angel

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and showed their support through the follows and favorites! Every email I got, I couldn't help but smile at. I hope you enjoy the new chapter! It's very late now, like around two am where I am and I am falling asleep typing this note, lol. I tried to edit all of it in my zombie-ness, and I think I got most of the mistakes, but nothing is perfect. Hopefully this is though! Lol. Enjoy the the first chapter!_

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**Chapter One: The Tourist & The Bruised Angel**

"_Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides" -André Malraux_

I find myself sitting in Scotland Yard, wearing jeans and a NY Giants sweatshirt. I look like a tourist with a problem, like I just got mugged in the shitty part of London or my cabbie was a disgusting pig and I'm looking to file a complaint on him. Neither is the case. I am waiting to be interviewed (if it is even one, I'm not entirely sure) by the homicide division of Scotland Yard. I am waiting for the Detective Inspector Lestrade to take me in, a lovely man that I have met over the phone the day before. Apparently, _someone_, my old Captain Garrett, pink faced and all, called him a week ago, telling him about me. That was nice of him to do when he was a total git to me in New York for the past three years.

And that is what led me here, sitting in Scotland Yard with my hands fiddling in my front sweatshirt pocket. I came at the perfect time, when everyone is right in the middle of a meeting. Both of my feet begin to tap to a beat stuck in my head, it sounds like a chopped up version of Mary had a Little Lamb.

My stomach growls. My head begins to pound. Inside the front pocket of my sweatshirt, I feel my hands become clammy. The foot tapping, soon becomes quicker. It doesn't sound like a nursery rhyme any more. It sounds like a bunch of nerves gathering inside of me. Anxiety issues. I'm in Scotland Yard right now, a fugitive with a very real fake identity and fake nose and fake papers. It was different in New York and working there. I wasn't too close to home for it to be dangerous. When I look up, the secretary is looking at me through her square-rimmed glasses now like I have ten heads.

_Breathe, Mere, just breathe._ I'm breathing, nerves calm down only a bit. I need a good puzzle right now, maybe a crossword or a word search. Or a code to decode. A good code will do me good, even if it's an obscure code that I don't see everyday. Something new. I look up after a minute to see a flood of officers walking out of the board room, talking amongst themselves. Some of them were carrying wrapped up food while others were carrying a cup of coffee. I stop tapping my feet to make myself look calm and collective on the outside. The secretary at the desk stops looking at me strangely and my eyes watch two final people walking out of the meeting room.

The female of the two has dark skin and a young look to her face. Though her face looks young, she has a tired, exasperated look in her brown eyes. Her hair is in wild dark curls with highlights of blonde. It looks like she is talking animatedly to her partner walking beside her. Her brow is furrowed and her accent is clear and loud in her voice. It's taking me a while to get used to this accent, compared to the New York accents I've been around it sounds like I have gone to London for a visit. When I say some things, it sometimes sounds like I'm actually from there.

The other alongside of her, the male, has a handsome, but tired face. Like the woman, he seems exasperated, but he is tolerating it. His eyes are somewhat sunken in with bags underneath them. He has what used to be black hair, now completely grey with the exceptions of the black specks. He must have been around forty, forty-two at most. Twenty-two years older than me. He rubs his forehead before he leaves the woman to go into an office. I narrow my eyes as the door shuts, at the corner of my eye I see the woman huff annoyed and pair off with a man, who to me looks like a younger version of that Professor Snape from those Harry Potter films people seem to like so much. The silver plaque in the middle of the door reads 'Detective Inspector Lestrade'.

The secretary doesn't make any motion to actually notice that he is back. "Excuse me," I say gently to her, crossing my legs in front of me. I take one of my hands out of my pocket to raise up a finger like I'm a school girl who wants to ask a question to her teacher. The secretary glances up at me for only a moment, she doesn't say anything to really acknowledge me. I clear my throat loudly before uncrossing my legs and getting up. "I believe the meeting that DI Lestrade was in just ended."

She barely glances behind her before she dips back down to her magazine. "And so it has, I will let him know you are ready to see him." I nod my fake thanks as she moves to the telephone like a snail. It almost makes me mad, but I'm acting like I am patient for my job interview coming up. I already made myself look like employee of the month with my current attire. She eventually mumbles into the phone, saying things that I can hardly hear.

A moment later, I hear the phone hang up. "Just knock before you go in," she says in a bored tone. Once her head looks down at that magazine, I make a face before turning away to head to Lestrade's office. I dare not to look in anyone's eye as I make my way, nor do I attempt to even stop my heart from pounding against me chest. When I get to his office, after what seems to be minutes instead of the few seconds, I force myself to actually knock on the door.

_Knock, knock, knock._ "Come in!" I hear a voice on the other side, sounds just like the man on the phone. I don't even smile or fake one as I let myself in. There is no need to smile. I have my lips pressed in a serious frown when I enter. Lestrade is already on his feet ready greet me. He's wearing an easy-going smile as he goes to shake my hand. My serious frown falters into a crooked smile before shaking his hand. His smile almost falters when he notices my attire. "Nice to finally meet you, Meredith."

"Pleasure to meet you, too." I say to him before he gestures to the seat in front of his desk. "I'm sorry that I'm dressed a little... sluggish—my clothes need to be pressed badly and the inn doesn't have an ironing board." I admit to him as he walks around his desk. He looks like he's about to plop down in his seat and prop his foot on the top of his desk to relax, but he remembers me in the room. He sits gently into his seat with ease and as he moves his coffee, I can see a scuff mark on top of his desk from when he put his foot up there before, most likely his left foot.

He sits at an angle that looks like he is about to do it when I leave the office, where it would be uncomfortable to put his right foot there. "No worries, Meredith." He recovers that charming smile as he pick up his cup of coffee to take a sip out of it. I want some myself, but I don't make it known. Once he puts the cup down on the desk, he tells me, "I've been told a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope?" My voice sounds uneasy, as it well should be. Never know what my old employer would have said about me. He hated me.

"Your Captain said that I would regret it if I didn't get a chance to speak with you." Garrett said that about me? I raise my eyebrow slowly at him before crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back in the chair. I find myself really comfortable around Lestrade right now. I have no idea why, but there is something about him.

I shake my head in disbelief, "That's very nice of him to say."

"He also said that you were one of the greatest in such a short time."

"I don't know if that is true," I say with a light chuckle. "There were very able detectives in the force like me. I was just specialized with certain cases."

"Like what?"

"I'm good with codes," I admit as I cross my legs over each other. "When I was younger, I used to hack into my brother's computer when I always wanted to get some blackmail. He changed his password over ten times before just giving up on me." I recall with a slight smirk. This is true, I always was a hacker before my fiancé. I changed the grades most of the time that I would get during grade school and once in uni. In uni, I got caught and kicked out.

"How many cases have you solved?"

"In three years? Many. Complicated ones, homicide mostly." I answer him with my smirk falling, he doesn't seem too impressed with my hack job when I was, what? Thirteen, maybe? Perhaps, fourteen? Maybe not the greatest thing to say to your future superior. I correct myself with the hack job thing, it does kind of seem _bad_. "I don't hack things... any more, if that's what you are thinking, I was fourteen at the time."

"You... hacked your brother's computer at the age of fourteen?" He asks in disbelief. I nod my head like there really was nothing of it. My brother, William, had the easiest passwords. The first one was our mother's name. The hint that his computer gave was like the first letter of her name, which was 'A' since my mother's name was Allison. Then it from that to his girlfriend's name, then to my name, then to my brother's own name. He had a pattern with names. I wouldn't be surprised if he still did use names as his password. "That's pretty remarkable," he says impressed.

"Thank you, but it wasn't really difficult." I don't think I should tell him about hacking into my teacher's computers, that would be too much. "I'm good at observing, and that's really all it takes."

"How good are you?"

"Pretty good," I start to him. My cocky side is starting to kick up, obviously my nerves have disappeared once I entered this office and sat down in front of him. Greg Lestrade seems to have boosted my ego, that was so wounded before I arrived. Before I stop myself, I make my observations in a quick minute. My eyes scan his desk, what do I see? A tired forty-two year old man, with bags under his eyes. In his tired, brown eyes, I can see his troubles and the stress that this job can do. I've been there. There is a picture frame faced down on his desk, it could be anything, wife and kids perhaps? Maybe they ruin his concentration on the job, he has too much concern for them?

No, my eyes catch the wedding band beside of the turned down picture frame. Now it makes sense. How his back is hunched over slightly as he leans his elbow on the top of his arm rest, how he might want to lounge out right now, how his neck seems stiff and all while his head rests on top of his fist. He looks like he has slept on top of the couch for the past month and a half. "You're having family problems, aren't you?" I ask him. Though a serious subject, I smirk at him again. A conceited smirk.

Lestrade's face falls once the words leave my mouth. His eyebrow immediately goes up at this, "How did you—?"

I interrupt him, "A hunch. You're hunching over your desk and you look like you want to lounge right now, plus the scuff mark on your desk says that you do it frequently too. You have a tired look to your face like you have just slept on a couch for the past week or so. Your picture frame on your desk is down, most likely because it distracts you and you don't want this to interfere with your work, you also don't have your wedding band on right now."

Lestrade seems frozen in his spot, but soon the corner of his mouth twitches into what looks like a smirk. I hear an impressed 'heh' come from him. "That's..." Lestrade gulps before shaking his head, "you seem to have a gift."

"Well, I used to be a detective," I tell him, "I'm supposed to have that gift."

"Right you are," he replies. "Very right. I see how much New York is going to miss you now that you're back in London. How is it for you, coming back I mean?"

With a shrug, I lie, "It never really changed." A lot has changed. Too much. I almost had forgotten where Scotland Yard was when the cab driver took me here. "The flight in though had. I don't remember jet lag being almost unbearable like it was yesterday. I didn't even want to move."

"I bet you didn't. Now, do you—?" He starts to ask me, when someone opens the door, barging right in. She didn't have to knock like I had to do. The female I saw him with goes inside with her hair flaring around her. I turn my head to see how distressed and disturbed she looked. She doesn't even look at me, she barely even notices me as she directs her eyes at Lestrade, who almost suddenly seems worried about what she is about to say.

"There was another one." She says to him urgently. My confused eyes are going back and forth between the woman and Lestrade. Lestrade takes a deep breath and rubs his forehead. "The body is the third one in the past two weeks, Lestrade."

"Where is it?"

"By the airport, another girl." The woman says shortly and in a hurry. Lestrade gets up from his chair and takes the jacket that is draped along the top of it. I still am confused between the two of them, having not a clue what in the world is going on. All I know is, after this, I'm getting a nice, cold drink in the nearest pub. "Officers are already there to block the press. They are probably going to have a field day with this one."

"Then we have to get there quickly, have Anderson ready with his team, Donovan." Donovan nods to Lestrade and goes to leave the room when she finally notices me sitting there. She pauses at the door as Lestrade still is getting ready to leave, collecting his phone and pager on the top of his office's table.

"Who are you?" She asks me curiously, but I can hear a slight sneer in her voice.

"Meredith Wilder." I state to her shortly, pressing my lips together and holding out my hand for her to quickly shake. She looks me head to toe, I think he must have told her about me. Once I said my name, her face lights up the way it does when you know a name, but she looks at my sweatshirt with a certain distaste. I can only imagine what is going through her mind right now. Probably the same like what I knew others would think of me before. A tourist with a problem.

"Sally Donovan, Sargent." She says, taking my hand in a firm shake. "You look like a tourist."

"My professional wear needs to be dry-cleaned and pressed," I explain to her quickly. She nods her head understandingly as she lets go of my hand in a hurry. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure is all mine, Wilder." Sally assures me before moving back toward the door. She looks to Lestrade, who is waiting for her by the door to leave. "I'll go get Anderson and we'll go." With that, Sally moves out of the room like a fire broke out. I still sit in the same spot with not a clue of what is going on at all.

Lestrade's voice comes to me in a short moment to get me standing up. "Well, Wilder, let's see what you can do." I turn my head to look behind my shoulder at him. Is he serious right now? Before I would even ask him, my legs work for me through my shock and I follow him out of his office.

* * *

I was filled in on the way there on what was going on in London for the past two weeks by an officer I tagged along with in a squad car. His name is Carl. He is a tall man with dark hair, but it isn't long or spiked up, it's actually buzzed down. His eyes are a muddy brown colour and he looks to me that he is fresh in Scotland Yard. Two murders had happened over the first week before I arrived. Both of them were women, restrained at some point, and had their head crushed. They were both women of the same age too and even though they were both of the same gender and age, nothing else really connected them.

That was all he really gave me on the way. The airport wasn't too far away from Scotland Yard, so we were there within minutes. Carl also told me how far the police have gotten on this case. Not far at all. They were all missing something obvious and pointing at them with a finger, not really paying attention to what was there really around them. I assume anyway. Apparently, Lestrade is beginning to be desperate to solve this case. He's at a dead end.

When we arrived, the body literally was by the airport, but it was somewhere in the parking lot. The area is blocked off by several squad cars and the yellow tape didn't allow the press or bystanders go past. I feel like an absolute idiot leaving the car, walking out and going under the tape like I actually belonged there with my sweatshirt and jeans. I cannot explain to twenty different people that my clothes are in dire need of ironing after being folded and wrinkled from my baggage. I ignore stares, glares, and everything else that is thrown at me as I join Lestrade and Donovan at a long table set up.

Donovan talks to Lestrade, explaining the situation as Lestrade puts on a plastic blue bodysuit. I look down at the blue outfit with scrutiny and confused eye, my brow furrows. Do I have to put that on? I don't ask, nor does Lestrade say anything as I reach for only the plastic gloves, honestly I can care less if any blood goes on this shirt. I hear the last part of what she says as I snap the gloves on my hands, "This body couldn't have been placed more than an hour ago, nobody found it before then."

"Well, what time is it?" I ask her. It can't be later than 9:30 in the morning.

She glances down at her watch. "9:15."

"Well, how many people park at the airport to catch a flight? Not many, not often do you see a person go to their car in the parking lot. They would either take a cab usually or have someone pick them up," I reason with her, snapping the other glove on for fun. I feel Lestrade's eyes on me as I continue on, "He could have placed this body a long, long time ago since this part is so far away from the entrance. Your man might have been the only one that could have been walking in this part of the parking lot." Sally stares at me with her eyebrow raised.

Lestrade tilts his head with a glint in his eye and a small smile beginning to show. "She has a point. Where is the man who found the body now?"

"In shock, his girlfriend was the one who called it in. She's in the ambulance with him now on the way to the hospital." Sally informs, sounding a little bit irritated by that.

"That's sweet of her, but she should break up with the guy if _he _was the one who went into shock." I mutter under my breath, pulling down my sweatshirt to cover more of my jeans. I hear a short chuckle behind me before Sally gives that person a glare for actually laughing at the crime scene. "Now, to get a closer look at that body, eh?" I ask them both with a small grin. Before they can even answer me, I turn to walk toward the body of a woman laying peacefully in the middle of this corner of the parking lot. I stop walking when I get to be at least three feet away from the body.

The deceased has red, fiery hair, in soft waves and it is placed right under the sun, making it almost angelic, red hair. Her hands are folded over her stomach and her eyelids are closed like she is in a deep, peaceful sleep. But getting to that sleep must have not been so peaceful like she is making it as. I take a couple of steps forward to get a closer look. Like Carl had said about the other victims, this one's head is _crushed_ like it was placed in the middle of an medieval torture instrument. Blood must have spluttered from her nose since it seems to have large amounts dried up on her face. The sides of her face were all black blue and blood also leaked from the top of her head, it dripped down to dry up along her red brow.

The sight of her is almost disturbing, but I remind myself that I have seen worse. My eyes catch the blood that must have been from when her body was dragged to that spot. I bend down on the pavement and pick up one of her wrists, there are marks that are from a very tight rope, most likely because she has been restrained. She is wearing a small nightgown that barely reaches to the middle of her thigh, she is very petite. Must be a girl in university, at least. She looks to be the age.

I gently place her wrist back on the ground before I hear Lestrade coming to me, with a suddenly agitated Sally walking along side him. "You invited the freak?" Donovan says to Lestrade annoyed, I look up with a raised eyebrow before standing up. Lestrade rubs his forehead like he had done at Scotland Yard leaving his meeting._ Freak? _She wasn't talking about me, was she? We only just met. Who else Lestrade could have invited? I put my hands on my hips, fisting them before looking down at the body again. I pretend to not have heard anything from their conversation.

"I told him if there was another murder that was connected, I'll allow him to come." Lestrade reasons to her before my eyes catch something dropping down from her neck, a heart-shaped locket. The locket is gold and looks like it isn't completely closed. I scan to see if there is any other pieces of jewellery on her and see a class ring on her finger. I frown down at it, the year inscribed on it is this year. She just graduated from university and had her whole life ahead of her. I gulp before looking up at Lestrade as he begins to talk to me, "So, what do you think?"

"This obviously is a murder," I say with a sad tone, not even realizing it at first. "The body has been dragged from somewhere, but she wasn't originally killed here. She was restrained somewhere else. Head crushed, on her arms there is some needle marks too over the veins, she might have been drugged at one point. She must be around her early twenties, she graduated university this year according to her ring."

"You think it's related to the other two?"

I nod my head to him quickly, "From what I heard, yes. But my opinion really doesn't matter now." Technically, I'm not a detective right now, what I say doesn't even matter as far as I'm concerned. Lestrade doesn't reply to me, instead he puts his hand on his hips while looking down at the body. Why did he even bring me here? Is it because I got the job, or this is just to pass my type? Either way, I have other plans right now to go and try to look for a flat. "Why did you bring me here?"

"For a new perspective," Lestrade states to me like it's nothing of it. He shrugs his shoulders as I stare after him with my eyebrow raised.

"You're breaking all the rules having me here," I inform to him. I may not be so keen on Britain law like I used to be, but I know enough about it to know that I'm _not_ supposed to be here, even if I was a former detective, I am _not_ supposed to be here. I can see it in his brown eyes though that he thinks that I am allowed here. "You must be breaking a dozen right now actually, I'm not an actual detective or an officer of any sort."

"You were though," Donovan steps in. I raise my brow to her now as she crosses her arms over her chest. "You think that we don't look at records before we allow someone to come with us? Wilder, did you forget that you were an officer in Scotland Yard for a few years before moving to the States?"

I stare at her for a moment confused, but turn my head ahead to look straight at an old convertible car. I was never an... oh, right, I put that in a while back in the Yard's database to give myself experience so I could work with the NYPD, they needed credentials, apparently. Not anyone could work with homicide without them. "Those were unhappy years," I lie to her with a smirk developing. Unhappy years, my arse. In my early twenties, I was rich and pissed drunk while rolling in my wealth. "It must have slipped my mind."

"Yeah well, we're thinking about reinstating you," Lestrade says, shuffling his feet covered in plastic clear bags as he looks down. He then looks up at me after a moment, "Maybe even making you a detective like in New York. I... _we_ need you in the homicide division, and think of this as a test of sorts to see if we are going to make the right decision."

I chuckle lightly at this even though Lestrade's face stays static in its serious expression. "You're joking," I say once my chuckling stops. He shakes his head no to me. This is a test? Like... I have to solve this case with them and if I do so brilliantly, I have a job? I wouldn't be paid now for this? My smirk that was toward Donovan stays when I shake my head myself in disbelief. This is the most _ridiculous_ thing I think I have ever heard. I mean, who makes a case a test for a new detective? For a new detective that doesn't even want to be a detective, really? "And what if I don't really want to be a detective in London?"

"Why did you come along then if you didn't?" Sally asks me curiously with her eyes narrowed.

It would be strange to be a detective for Scotland Yard when I was once a picture on a wanted poster, wouldn't it? I don't state that reason. "Lestrade sounded like a nice man on the phone. I thought I should give him the pleasure of meeting him in person, especially since he's heard good things about me."

"So what are you going to do then? What sort of job are you thinking of having then if it won't be one that you are good at?"

"I wanted to retire my position and own a shop, and a very nice one at that." I tell her with my smirk beginning to grow even more bigger. If it is possible. It might have turned into a grin now. Grinning and chuckling at a crime scene, how lovely. "It's better than not being paid at all when I'm trying to look for a flat, you know?"

"And retail will bring you a flat?" Sally asks me in disbelief. I hate to say this, but I'm beginning to like her. Her and I could be friends, she sounds like me in some ways. Before I can even respond to her, she looks at Lestrade and says to him, "I'm going to stand by the tape to keep an eye out for Anderson and your freak, for whenever he decides to come." She walks away from the both of us to go stand by the blue tape, I see a scowl come on her face when she sees a press trying to go under it. I turn my head to Lestrade who only sighs.

I hold back my own sigh as I tell him, "Maybe the 'freak' can help you, whoever he may be. I don't think it's a good idea to have me here."

Lestrade furrows his brow toward me, clearly puzzled. He tilts his head and squints his small eyes at me before inquiring, "You really think so?"

With a nod, I muster out, "I do." I love what I did. But I can't continue it here, that would be strange... "Inspector, I have been a detective in New York for three years, I loved my work." I tell him honestly as I peel off the gloves to give them back to him, I have had my fun for the day playing a detective in Scotland Yard. I go to hand the gloves over to him, which he takes out of my hands reluctantly. "I actually had troubles of my own while in it that forced me on the couch for several night, my fiancé wasn't the type to be chivalrous. I was married to work, and though I did not want to sign the divorce paper when I was going to be deported, it was a relief. It broke up my engagement and I don't think I want it to do it again if it ever were to happen here." I doubt it. I'm still not sure how I even got into my first relationship with Paul. I'm clueless with men.

I add to him when he nods his head to me understandingly, "Besides, I was only as good as my partner. I don't think I can really work with anyone else but him since he was—_is—_my best friend who helped me a lot in that city. It would be... hard for me to get back in it. This was great though, I haven't had a good crime scene in weeks like this one and even though you broke a couple of rules, I appreciate it. Thank you for bringing me by for a bit."

"You're welcome..." Lestrade sounds almost unsure when he says that. But nevertheless, he holds out his hand for us to shake goodbye. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You too." I say with a small smile before taking his hand in mine, giving it a gentle shake before letting it drop. And then, I turn on my heel to leave, when I hear Lestrade say something behind me.

"If you ever change your mind though," Lestrade starts to me. My fallen grin from before makes a small appearance when I look over to him. He goes on, "you have a number to give me a ring."

"I'll keep it in mind, Lestrade." I say to him slowly. Then in a quick decision, before I change my mind, I walk away from him. I can only imagine his hand brushing through his grey hair as I retreat back to Carl, maybe he would be kind enough to give me a ride. If not, I'll go get a cab. I'm sure I can find plenty at an airport. But... I pause in my walking to look behind my shoulder to see Lestrade staring down at the body of the almost peaceful girl. My eyes slowly going up to see the sun brightly shining down on it, its rays making the body, though bruised and worn, at peace. At _peace_.

Damn... damn, damn, damn. I close my eyes for a moment, annoyed at myself before I yell out, "Oi, Lestrade!" I turn back around to jog back to where he is standing. Lestrade seems confused when he hears me before looking up.

"You changed your mind that quickly?" He asks me, I can see how confused he must be. I quickly shake my head to him, honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing right now to make sense of it. Lestrade seems like he wants to understand, but doesn't really. I look up at the sun again curiously before looking back down at the body laying down on its back, its hands folded over her stomach like it would be in a coffin at a funeral, her eyes closed, not showing the colour and not showing the lacking life they will have. She is wearing something new, the nightgown. It's neither worn nor stained with blood and if it there was no bruises, no dried up blood, it would look like she is just passed out... not dead. And she's wearing a pure colour, _white_.

Him and I just stare at each other for a moment, before I tell him, "If you want some advice, I say look at how the body is positioned, you may have something if you do."

"That's all you came back here for?" He inquires to me.

I nod my head to him before bowing it down, "That's all and now I'll take my leave from here." With that, I then turn to leave. Lestrade doesn't stop me, nor asks me questions about what I say. Instead, when I glance behind my shoulder as I leave, I see him almost have a calculating gaze like I just pushed him in the right direction. I jog back to where I was before, thinking that I've wasted more than enough precious time here. I go toward Donovan who has a walkie in her hand while she leans back on the squad, staring down anyone who wants to even attempt to cross her blue and white tape. The press around here from before, along with some civilians, seem to have backed away and go on with their lives. The press is full of vultures, I won't doubt that some of them are trying to take photos from a bush right now.

I change my pace when I catch up to the tape and Donovan, who must have heard or expected me to come at some point, turns around just as forensics begin to enter. The Snape-looking man goes under the tape after giving me a strange look as I approach Sally with an easy smile. "It was great to meet you, Sargent."

"Leaving so soon?"

"Yeah, flat hunting." I tell her simply. I'm going to go to the nearest café and pick up the paper to see if I find anything in the listings. If I do, for the right price, hopefully I'll be out of the smelly inn within a few days. Or I'll be looking for a job, so I won't have to wear a sweatshirt to my next job interview (if you count this as an interview). "But it was great being here at the scene, I just want to get out of here though."

"Alright then," Sally doesn't offer me her hand, she doesn't even say goodbye like I thought she would. She picks up her blue tape high enough for me to go under and a look of disappointment comes on her face. Or I at least think it's disappointment. I may be wrong. "Good luck in retail," Sally tells me before I go under. I gulp silently at the sound of that, now I kind of don't want to share a ride with Carl to go home with. I'd rather take a cab. I nod slowly as I walk to the front of the airport, stuffing my hands in my front shirt pocket.

The walk from the corner of the parking lot, which is a far corner, to the front of the airport where people are getting out of cabs and going in them took me around seven minutes at most. I lost track of time, being consumed in thoughts, doubts, all of that wonderful stuff. I kick a lone rock here and there, the lone rock almost reminds me of myself. So out of place, so beaten up, I'm sure I'm not the only one who has kicked it around. The rock is hard and if I'm not wearing shoes, I would think it would have feel cold and rough against my bare feet. Cold, rough, kicked around, beaten, out of place, lonely. That seems like me.

I finally reach the front, I barely even look up when I bump into someone's shoulder. I hear the person curse at me. I don't do anything to acknowledge the person as I glance to the empty cab line. Flights must have not come in or everyone is waiting for their baggage. The claim takes too long to give everyone their luggage, patience is hard to come by. When I make it to the front of the line, a full cab rolls up in time. I watch it stop in front of me as the man regulating the cab line asks me, "Any baggage?" It is the same guy from yesterday that helped me.

"Does it look like I have baggage?" I say annoyed to him.

He turns his head away from me discouraged. I hear him mumble something rather grumpily, I choose to not acknowledge that either. The man regulating the line moves away from me to open the doors of the cab for the two people inside, but one of the men inside of the cab goes to do it before the man could even try. They both do it on either side actually, almost hitting the man back. The man breathes in the fine air around the airport, I catch a small glimpse of his high cheekbones as he turns to the smaller man who just rounded the cab.

The taller one takes out his phone from his long coat pocket before he tells the smaller man, "This way, John." The man tries to move me in the cab as I stare on curiously at the man. The taller man opposite from the one named John has a deep, baritone voice. He puts his phone back into his pocket before sending a look at the cab sitting in park, waiting for me to go in. "Since the cab driver is too much of an idiot to bring us right to the crime scene."

Crime scene? They are going to the crime scene? The man tries to lead me in the cab again, but I move my arm away from him to watch this little scene play out. I glare over at him, not saying a word, and the man huffs loudly before complying with me. John looks to the taller man before they begin to stalk away from me, "It's not his fault, Sherlock, he's on a time schedule." Sherlock? The man tries to get me in the cab again before I stare off at the two men in disbelief. Sherlock... Holmes? The one that Carter was looking up yesterday on the plane... _the_ Sherlock Holmes who put that simplistic code on his 'Science of Deduction' site?

"It's called _laziness_, since he is about to take someone else in the cab instead of looking around the lot for a crime scene in the furthest corner of the parking lot." Sherlock Holmes says to John. To confirm this, John looks behind his shoulder to see me actually staring at them in amazement. I turn my head quickly before I actually let the man lead me to the cab. I glance back inconspicuously to see John turn his head. But turning his head to look at me made him almost lose Sherlock. "John, let's go." I catch him say loudly as the man opens the back door for me. I look one last time at them for a while to see John actually catch up to him in a small jog, almost similar to the one I did before.

"Where are you headed?" The cab driver asks me before I go in the back seat. I lower myself tentatively, letting one of my legs still be out so the man outside doesn't shut me in quite yet. I am silent, maybe in a little bit of a shock. _Shock._ I glance outside to see the man being as patient as he can with me. I hear the cab driver say a little bit more harshly this time, "Where are you going, miss?"

"No where," I mumble to him without even knowing it at first. The cab is silent, as is the outside of the cab. I look between the man holding the door out for me still and the cab driver looking at me through his rear-view mirror. Did I really just say _nowhere_? I did... I think for a moment before I find my feet moving for me the _second_ time that day. I get out of the cab pushing the man slightly out of my way before peeking my head in the cab, my hand now holding the door for myself rather than the line-regulator- person. "I don't really go in a cab driven by someone who is lazy." I say to the driver clearly. "Accidents and all, long, slow routes. Not my style." With that, I slam the door.

The cab driver is almost baffled and I jump up onto the curb before he drives away from it, he was dangerously close to my foot when I was outside the cab. I am almost baffled. I could have at least paid him to take _me_ to the crime scene. I follow in the steps of Sherlock Holmes and... _John_, whomever he is, back to the crime scene, being just as confused as the cab driver and the man who led me to the cab.

* * *

_I hope I got the characters in character. I get really nervous about these things, especially in a new fandom, so if you have any advice on writing characters in character, let me know. I'd be happy to take it :). Hope you enjoyed and see you next time!_


	3. Sherlock Holmes

_Okay, so I was going to make this chapter a lot longer than it is so it wouldn't make the story seem so slow, but I think it's already brimming 7,000 words and if I continued it, it would be too long, so I didn't want to do that. I wasn't going to update today as well since it is my senior cut day, but I don't feel well enough to go to the beach :(. _

_Well, then, hello! Hope everyone who celebrates Memorial Day had a good one! Thank you to all the feedback from last chapter, it means so much to me plus I didn't expect anyone to really like this. I hope you enjoy the new chapter!_

* * *

**Chapter Two: Sherlock Holmes**

"_I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."  
-Oscar Wilde, The Happy Prince and Other Stories_

I don't understand myself sometimes. Actually, I don't want to understand myself at all unless it would be a matter of life and death for me. Sherlock Holmes and John walk fast, I didn't make any effort to really catch up to their pace but I was always at least nine feet behind them. Besides, it's good to keep my distance. I only want to know _why_ he is there at the crime scene, I don't really want to talk to him and his... friend. My legs are beginning to hurt from all this walking I have done, and when I see the familiar scene with Donovan still at the tape, relief washes over me like a tidal wave.

I have stared at the backs of two men far too long, I'd rather stare down at a dead body right now. I recognize what resembles a scowl on her face as she pulls it up for them to go underneath. She yells something out at them before dropping the tape and leaning her back against the squad car. She turns her head to look out and when she looks straight at me, she narrows her eyes. "Changed your mind that fast, didn't ya?" She says loudly to me with a small smile.

I shrug my shoulders as I approach her, "Flat hunting can wait, I suppose." She brings up the tape so I can go under and once I do she crosses her arms over her chest. "Besides, I'm going to regret not staying later, I'm not going to cause any harm by being here now, am I?"

Before she can reply, I go back to the table where Lestrade is talking to the two men I followed. John puts on the long body suit and covers his feet in the plastic bags. He snaps on the rubber gloves on both of his hands. His colleague however leaves his long coat on and dark blue scarf before actually beginning to peel off his black, leather gloves to replace them with the rubber ones. But, like me, he ignores the blue body suit.

Lestrade glances over my way and when he sees me coming to the table an expression comes on his face. Confused? Most likely, he is having a lot of confused expressions because of me, it seems. He looks back at Sherlock for a moment, saying something about the case, before he glances back at me. I stop ten feet away from the table and look idly up at the sky when Lestrade excuses himself from the two men. The two men look over at me but I don't pay any attention to them as Lestrade comes over.

"You're back so quick?" He asks me.

I shrug my shoulders to him like I did to Sally, smirking. "I'll regret it later if I find a job in a department store."

"So does that mean...?"

"I'm considering it," I tell him with a nod. Those words just left my mouth. I'm considering working with Scotland Yard. _Me_. A bright grin appears on his face as we both go back to the table together. I have a feeling those discarded gloves that are the only pair left are mine. "If I was planning to stay, I should have gotten a coffee for myself. Anything new happen when I left for twenty minutes?"

"Nothing, Forensics only began to cover here. They came when you left." Lestrade says to me as I push between the two men staring at me with narrowed eyes. One of the pairs, I feel calculating me. "Coffee does sound good right now, though." Lestrade agrees with me.

I turn to the taller man, "Yes, so can you get that for us? Black, please." Sherlock Holmes stares down at me as if he is _actually_ insulted by me. Now that I have a better look at him, he must be around six feet tall. His friend, John, makes it to his chin and Lestrade makes it somewhere there, too. He has prominent and sharp cheekbones protruding his skin and his pale blue eyes look almost cold. His face is long and he has brown, somewhat curly hair that brushes against his forehead This is Sherlock Holmes? The one Carter looked up on his laptop yesterday? He isn't exactly what I pictured. I hear a snicker on the side that Sherlock silences with one glance.

I take the discarded gloves to slip my hands in when I hear Lestrade next to me, "Meredith, that is Sherlock Holmes."

"I know, I just wanted to see his reaction when someone like me would ask him to get me a cup of coffee like he is the help." I say to him as I rub my hands together. "He gave me advice about a certain cab driver too lazy to actually drive here." I look over at him as he nods his head in recognition.

"So you were the one by the cab before who was about to go in." Sherlock says to me with his eyes lighting up with recognition. I shrug my shoulders at him as he looks to Lestrade with his eyebrow raised, "Since when do you allow random people who dress like a tourist enter in on a crime scene?"

"She's not random, Sherlock."

"What makes you think that I ain't a tourist?" Lestrade and I both talk at the same time, me in my horrible New York accent. Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, I can tell he really doesn't like me at all just by that eye-roll. Hell, I don't even like him. I'm only curious about him, is all.

Sherlock looks away from me before he goes off toward the body. "Come on, John." He says to his friend shortly. Lestrade, John, and I look after him. I, in almost an awe, he is pompous and arrogant. Even how he walks, it is almost like he is _trying_ to show that he is clever... which I doubt.

I look over to John, who comes up to me with a small twitch of his lips that look almost to me like the beginning of a sweet smile. He holds out his hand toward me, "John Watson." I slowly take his hand in mine. John Watson stands with his back straight, his blonde hair is darker than mine and is straight, combed over to the side. Judging by how his hair is growing it looked like he had a crew cut at one point in his life. He has a thin mouth and a nose with a button-shaped end. His face is more round than Sherlock's is and in his blue eyes, I can see that this see man has seen a lot. He's a military man.

"Meredith Wilder," I say to him slowly before taking his hand in mine. He looks ridiculous in that blue suit and I'm almost considering telling the good man that. But I don't. He holds my hand in a firm grasp as he shakes it.

"I'm sorry about my... colleague, he tends to be like that." Colleague? I raise my brow at that but nod my head to him like I understood. That makes more sense... actually. "So... you were the one on the line for a cab?" He asks me curiously, changing the subject from excusing his 'colleague'. I nod my head to him again and only now do I realize that Lestrade has left the both of us to go stand by Sherlock. "Why did you come here? Or... how did you really get in here?"

"I'm a detective, or was... I don't really know any more." I tell him honestly. He looks at me puzzled and all I feel is being obliged to elaborate. "I was in New York for three years, working along with them as a detective and actually got myself deported. Lestrade heard of me and called me in, then dragged me on the case in the middle of what I think was a job interview. When you saw me, I was going to be leaving here before."

"Oh... okay, that makes some sense, I guess." John says to me slowly. It barely makes sense in my mind, how does it really make sense in his? I see it in his face that he is at least trying to make sense of it, which, I'll admit, is very sweet of him. "But why'd you come back then if you were going to leave?"

"I saw you two," I tell him honestly. Now he is really confused, I can see it in his face. He isn't even trying to make any sense of what I said before. I continue on, "I have a friend who is a fan of your friend's website."

"Colleague." John corrects me almost immediately.

"Yeah, whatever. My friend is amazed by him apparently and I want to see what makes Sherlock Holmes tick. Plus maybe working in a store would be so _boring._" I add the store part before even realizing it. He doesn't even know about my ideas about getting a store or working in one. It could be boring, unless you do have a robbery in the middle of the day, then it may be a little exciting.

"I'm sorry, a store?"

"I was going to go look for a job and a fl—."

"John!" Sherlock's voice bellows from the body, cutting me off in the middle of my sentence. Both John and I look over to see Sherlock crouched down at it, examining all that he could of what was on the body. John gestures for me to go ahead of him and I sigh before I do so. This should be really interesting. The two of us walk beside each other quietly to the body and we get there in less than a minute. I put my hands on my hips as John goes to stand over Sherlock. My eyes scan over the lower half of the girl and my upper lip twitches when I notice the marks from the restraints around her ankles.

Sherlock looks up from where he is, a smirk appearing on his face. He is smirking at the crime scene after looking at a dead body... that is strange. "Any ideas, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks him. I look over at him slightly and begin to wonder, has he even looked over the body yet or gave it a once over? No use thinking about it now. Before Sherlock could even say a word, something bulging catches my eye.

"A few," Sherlock says to Lestrade without even looking up at him. I round to the victim's feet while he talks, saying things that I already figured out and some that I didn't, "The girl is about twenty-two years old, fresh out of university judging by her class ring. She was obviously dragged here from a four-wheel truck. She was restrained where it was damp, which explains why her skin is still slightly sticky from the dampness and why the marks around her wrists and ankles are deep from the rope that he tied her with. Most likely she was in a basement for a period of time. She is positioned under the sun where it would be at high noon so it would shine down on her and she is placed so it looks like she is sleeping, which is why the killer closed her eyes and rested her hands over the abdomen like you would do at your funeral. He cared for her, like he did with the other two."

"To a certain extent, of course." John steps in, breaking Sherlock's quick hand movements and talking. Sherlock looks abruptly up at him. I crouch down slowly at her feet, but don't look down at whatever is bulging out yet. "Well, he didn't _completely_ care for her, he restrained her and crushed her head. I could hardly think that could be considered _caring_ for someone."

"He _did _care for her," Sherlock corrects him rather rudely. "He only did that at the very end, but before then he dressed her, bathed her, fed her, and gave her water."

"Almost like a little pet?" Lestrade questions him unsure. Sherlock looks over at him and makes it seem like the answer to that is extremely obvious. It is, I have to agree with him on this. "If that's the case then, why didn't he wash her after he killed her so she, and the other bodies, don't look like they've been in a medieval chamber?"

"Good question." Sherlock replies to him softly before turning back to the body. I finally take the time to look down at the heels of the body's feet. My hand goes to touch the left one, feeling the lifted up skin that is in a shape of a symbol. One that I have definitely seen before, can't quite recall when. My mouth parts as my finger smooths over the freshly burned lines before gulping. As Sherlock goes on, I go to my back pocket to take out my phone, pulling up my camera to take a quick picture of it. "He wanted to make her seem angelic, it seems. That is why she's wearing white, it's a pure colour and there isn't a stain on it, nor is it really wrinkled. The locket around her neck is new, it's not scratched at all and the chain isn't even worn out, if she wore it often it would be breaking slightly. The killer also posed this to be centred in the middle of the chest. Now, is this the first time a victim has been seen with a locket?"

"Yes." My camera goes off once Lestrade answers him. The noise makes them all look over to me curiously and I ignore them all.

"Why didn't you tell me that when I took a look at the body?" I ask Lestrade. I didn't really mean to sound so annoyed while doing it, but wouldn't you when you found out that your future superior withheld information from you?

Lestrade seems focused on the fact that my camera phone went off rather than my question. He tries to answer me, "I would have if you stayed long... why did you take a picture of her feet?"

"She's branded," I answer him shortly and quickly put up google to plug the picture in the search, hopefully I could get a image shortly. "You didn't know that she was branded?"

"Oh, we did, they all are," Sherlock now looks up at Lestrade as if this is something new to him as well. I control myself to actually not burst out in something that could be either anger or close to anger. Lestrade looks between us both. "What? I thought you both would have assumed it or read it in the papers."

"I came in the country yesterday and assuming makes an ass out of you and me, I tend to not do that."

"And sometimes journalists have the tendency to exaggerate all stories that they put in the paper. If they said brand, I would have thought it was a figure of speech rather than an _actual_ brand." Sherlock adds on, reaching for the locket around the girl's neck. "Have you even an idea on what the brand actually means or are you and your men not able to figure it out?"

"I got my best men re—."

"It's a Zibo symbol meaning, 'begin anew.'" I say looking down at my phone getting the result almost immediately. Google is better than the police force everyday. I glance down at the screen of the phone and smirk to myself, now I know where I have seen it before. My friend from uni had gotten it on her lower back and I advised against it. I don't trust tattoo artists and symbols. I stand up from where I am and hand over the phone to Lestrade, who furrows his brow down at it. "Tell your best men google is always the way to go and not millions of translation books. Idiots always post shit up like that."

"How do you know it's right, Wilder?" Lestrade asks me curiously, briefly looking up from my phone.

"You can't post anything on Wikipedia now without any sources," I reply simply before taking the phone out of his hands and putting it in my back pocket. "Were they all the same symbol on the other bodies?"

"Yes, they were."

"Well—."

"I'm sorry, Inspector," Sherlock stands up from where he is to look at Lestrade with a frown on his face. I look over at him abruptly with my eyebrow raising, "but who is _she_ to actually be looking at a body?"

"Who are _you_ to actually be looking at a body?" I counter to him almost offended by him. "We are both on the same side of a coin, I can't be here and neither you or your friend can't be here."

"We aren't amateurs like you, I've solved dozens of cases alongside Lestrade for five years and Dr. Watson is my assistant." I put my hands on my hips and look over at John with some interest now. So not only was he in the military, but he was an army doctor? That's pretty impressive, I wonder if it was in Afghanistan or Iraq? My money's on Afghanistan if I have any. "You, on the other hand, have just came back from New York yesterday, you walk as if you're still on the aeroplane and not only are you wearing an American football sweatshirt from New York, you say things like you are from there. But not everything. You obviously lived there for a long time, I presume. Five years, at most?"

"Do you always show off?" I inquire throwing a small smirk at him. He doesn't answer me, so I correct him instead, "Three years."

He doesn't skip a beat after that. "Can't be right about everything, but now why did you leave? You obviously don't want to be back in London, or else you would have made at least some effort in your appearance... but you _do_ put effort in your appearance," he says with a smile on his face suddenly, he looks me up and down as he puts his hands flat together like he is praying, the tips of his fingers touch his chin lightly.

"Sherlock, please." John reaches his hand out to Sherlock's shoulder in order to stop him from continuing whatever he is doing with me.

Something possesses over me—curiosity, maybe—that makes me not want John to actually succeed in stopping Sherlock in whatever he is doing. I want him to continue on. "No, it's okay John. Let Mr. Holmes say what he has to say." I say to John without even looking at him. I never take my eyes off of Sherlock. He really does have remarkable eyes when you _really_ look at them. Sometimes they are a pale blue, other times green, and then, right now for instance, they have flecks of yellow in them. I'm jealous of them. "How do I put effort in my appearance, Sherlock? Enlighten me."

"You've dyed your hair blonde recently," Sherlock simply stated. I dyed my hair blonde again three days ago because it was fading. I never bleached my hair because my original hair colour would be long gone. "Your hair is darker at the roots and it's uneven. Your hairdresser was awful in New York. You still have some red in your hair from before. Your eyes are an uneven shade of green and blue, you're wearing contacts, that isn't a natural tint to them. Your face also doesn't look natural, your nose is hardly proportional with it."

"I assure you my nose is very much real," I tell him with a light chuckle, but I feel my chest actually tighten at that. He figured out that my nose is fake? How on earth... he can tell that I just lied through my teeth too. He looks at me in my eyes, tilting his head, and though I have an easy smirk on my face, I look away from his eyes for a quick second and gulp. John and Lestrade don't realize it, but Sherlock, on the other hand, does. "But you're right about the hair and the contacts, I hate my eye colour and hated being a ginger. And three days ago, my usual hairdresser caught the flu, which is why my hair colour is a little uneven."

"But why are you here?" He doesn't believe the excuses of my hair being a different shade nor why I wear contacts, but he doesn't comment on it. I actually appreciate that. "When I looked at your hand before, I've noticed that you have a tan line where a ring used to be. Too thin to be a wedding band, but thin enough to be an engagement ring. It ended badly, if it was a sentimental ending, you would've kept your ring and maybe still wear it. Not on your left, but maybe your right. But that is not the case." His hands drop from his chin to go on. I would stop him there, but how far is he willing to go? He's almost right on all points. "Like I said, it ended badly, in fact he is mostly the reason why you're here. Perhaps you left to get away from him, but that would be a choice. You aren't here by choice, are you, Wilder?"

"I insist on you calling me Meredith, and _no_, I am not."

"So you left New York, not by choice?" I nod my head again to him, looking him over carefully. He chuckles deeply before looking behind his shoulder at Lestrade, who is looking somewhat irritated by what Sherlock is doing. John barely is looking at us, in fact, his head is hanging as he rubs his forehead in exasperation. I wouldn't be surprised that Sherlock does this to at least everyone that he meets and it must embarrass John, too. "You actually let a deported citizen onto a crime scene?"

"You should know better than that, Sherlock." Lestrade replies to him.

"Yeah, you should," I say to him with a small nod, my smirk growing wider. I don't realize until now that there is only about two feet between us, which means he must have moved toward me while making his deductions of me. "Come on, Sherlock, I know you want to ask me why I'm here. It's okay to ask."

"I have a couple of ideas," Sherlock says to me. "You were either an officer beforehand of Scotland Yard and are looking to work with them again or you were a detective in New York. Which one?"

"Sort of both of them." He looks at me carefully again before turning to the body. If he knows something, he's not saying it out loud.

That was... unexpected. I look at the back of his head for a moment with my smirk falling off and my mouth parting. I take back what I said to Carter yesterday on the aeroplane. What he just did... was hardly something an amateur would do. Sure, he missed a few things, but they were small things and didn't matter at all. He really... was almost right on all points about my life in the ten minutes we've known each other. I wonder how long it took him to decode that message on his website now... seriously, this time. I look to Lestrade, "You didn't tell him anything about me, I presume?"

"Nope." Lestrade answers me with a shake of his head. I let out a snort before looking up at the sky in disbelief, the corner of my mouth twitches and I grin stupidly.

Sherlock crouches down again at the body, ignoring me in the background. "That was..." I start to him again before walking toward the body, crouching down next to him. "That was remarkable."

"You're not offended?" John asks me in disbelief as Sherlock says something at the same time as him.

"Was it?" Sherlock seems surprised by that response. I could only imagine the responses that he would usually get from his deductions. I look between him and John before actually looking up at John before shaking my head no. Mine could have been worse and I appreciate the fact that he didn't say anything about me lying, which I know he knows about. If he doesn't, then I'd be surprised.

I glance back at Sherlock before looking forward at the licence plate of a small truck, "Oh yeah, definitely... definitely remarkable. You were right... you are hardly the amateur. We haven't really properly met," I start to him slowly before I hold out my hand to him, which he looks down at almost reluctantly. "Hopefully, Soon-to-be-Detective Meredith Wilder." Sherlock looks down at my hand for a moment and takes his back from the locket to grip it within his.

His hand holds mine firmly and gives it a quick shake. His hand makes my hand seem smaller and dainty than it actually is, and under the rubber glove he wears, it looks soft. I wonder if it actually is. "The only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes."

"Pleasure to meet you." Sherlock now drops my hand before he turns back to the locket.

"Great, now that we have proper introductions," Lestrade starts to all of us. I look up at him before standing up. "Can we get back to this murder?"

"Yes we can," I answer him with a smile. "As Sherlock said, the serial killer wanted all of his victims to seem pure and angelic as you see. He wanted them to look natural, which might be why he didn't wash them off after killing them. She's also wearing white, and I'm going to presume that they all wore light colours. He cared for each of them, so maybe, the bodies are supposed to represent somebody close to him."

"Like who?" John asks me, looking confused. I look over at him with my eyebrow arching. "A wife, a daughter?"

Before I even get to answer, Sherlock steps in, now having the locket in his hand and having it turned over, "Daughter." His answer is flat. He stares at the the back of the locket with narrowed eyes.

"Daughter? How could you possibly know that?" Lestrade asks him. "It could be a wife, a sister, a mother."

"'For my sweetest daughter, Beth.'" Sherlock reads off to us. "It's on the locket, but when you open the locket," Sherlock opens the locket as a small piece of paper falls out. My eyes immediately go to the paper on the ground. "The girl inside doesn't look anything like our body. Almost, but not the exact resemblance." He hands over the locket to Lestrade before he picks up the paper that fell on the ground.

Lestrade talks to Sherlock as I watch him unfold it, "So, he's using young women around the age of 22, to use them to represent his daughter? Sherlock, the other two," Lestrade glances down at her locket for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock is reading whatever is on the piece of paper. The writing on it is small, and I can't read it. I still try though, the words don't really look put well together. He continues, "don't even look anything like this girl. They all look completely different, this is the only one that makes some resemblance."

"Well, they have to have something other than their age in common." Sherlock says to him, sounding somewhat impatient.

"Maybe they do," I mutter to myself, looking down at the small dress she is wearing. It's white and pure, as said dozens of times already. White and pure. _Pure_. "Aren't angels... usually virgins?" Sherlock looks up from the body and I can see him actually considering this. He pockets he note in his coat pocket and I look away from him quickly as he looks up at me. I'm going to pretend I did not just see him withhold evidence. I glance over at John, who looks down at Sherlock's pocket. He saw that, too, and yet he isn't really saying anything about Sherlock pocketing a note from a murderer.

Sherlock's voice brings me back to paying attention, "So you think that he takes women, age 22, single, and a virgin and takes care of them like they are his own before killing them suddenly?" I nod my head slowly, it seems logical. Of course, the murderer would have to check that she's a virgin, but for women, surprisingly, you can still do that. Men, you can only tell by their demeanour. That's why teenage boys fumble the first time when trying to take off your bra, or when gamers and nerds have trouble when actually speaking with a girl. A woman's virgin demeanour is far different, because we are just way too complex to figure it out, unless of course, you are a woman yourself.

"That's actually..." Sherlock starts to me and I cock a brow at him. Is he about to compliment me? He sucks on his bottom lip for a quick moment, "reasonable. Glad to see a member of Scotland Yard finally using their head."

"I'm not a member of Scotland Yard."

"_Yet_."

"I'm sorry, but how did they really know that they were virgins?" Lestrade asks us both, his face looking puzzled.

I chuckle lightly at this, "Shall we go back to health class, Lestrade? I'm sure the army doctor would be more than happy to explain how we can tell a woman is physically a virgin."

John now seems to be puzzled and he points at me, "How did you know...?"

"It's quite obvious, I just don't make my deductions known like Mr. Holmes here. I've figured it out when you shook my hand back at the table." I smirk over at Holmes and he looks away quickly. I glance back at John, "Plus he mentioned that you were a doctor and you stand as if you are in line, rigid, plus the way your hair is cut and growing in, makes me believe that you are from the army."

Before John can even respond to that, Lestrade cuts in. "I know _how_ we can tell that she is a virgin physically." Lestrade looks over at me. "I mean, how can the killer actually pick them off of the streets? There's no way in knowing in public unless—."

"Well, the marks on her arms suggest that she was drugged before," Sherlock answers for me, gesturing toward her arms with his hand. "So he might have presumed, drugged them, checked and if they were, he kept them or if they weren't, let them go free. It's easier to do something less obvious in common, than actually have something more obvious to link each murder. If they all looked like the daughter, how simple would that be to find him? No, he wanted to make it _less_ obvious, which is why you can't figure it out. So he picked, the least obvious thing that would be difficult to catch on unless you pay attention to the details."

"But, Sherlock, don't you think it's a little bit of a stretch?" Lestrade asks him with his eyebrow raised. I shrug my shoulders, it may be a stretch but that's the only thing I can think of.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side slightly and admits, "It could be a slight stretch, but it's not impossible. The only way in knowing is checking the other bodies, which is what I'm about to do." He takes his mobile phone out of his pocket and looks down at it. That's it? He's just going to leave now? "Be sure to look for any missing girls from the University of London, according to her ring, that's where she's from, Lestrade." I look over at Lestrade, who, to me, doesn't seem at all surprised by Sherlock suddenly about to leave. Lestrade nods his head at Sherlock as John is beginning to take off his rubber gloves. "Send me a text when you find out."

With that, he leaves with little goodbye. He never even looks up from his blasted phone. John attempts to take off his body suit quickly, unzipping it as he begins to follow Sherlock. "Lestrade," he nods his goodbye to him before taking off the plastic bags off of his feet. Lestrade nods back to him, not really saying anything. I look behind my shoulder to see Sherlock already discarded his gloves on the ground, not really bothering to throw them on the table. "Nice to meet you, Meredith." John says to me quickly. I look over to him and mutter something along the same before he tries to catch up to Sherlock Holmes.

I gaze forward at that same truck I've looked at before. Lestrade and I are silent for a moment. "Does he always walk off like that?" I ask Lestrade curiously, not glancing over at him.

Lestrade replies, "All the time."

"Oh," is all I can think of saying. Did all this actually just happen? I look down at the body for a moment before turning my head where Sherlock has gone. I turn my head back to look down at the body. It feels like it has happened so quickly that I don't even know which is way up and down.

"Oh, is right." Lestrade says, making me glance over at him as he is thinking about something, biting the corner of his lip. "Anderson!" He suddenly shouts out. I raise my brow as I see someone come over after taking pictures of the tire tracks left at the scene. So that's where he saw the tire tracks before, I didn't even notice them coming on the scene. He jogs over, Anderson is the one that I keep seeing from Forensics. He has a long, wide nose and a narrow face. He has frown lines around his mouth and he must be mid-thirties, at most? Maybe slightly older. His dark hair is parted in the middle, slightly greasy and a little long, but it's not touching his shoulders. If he lets it grow out it would.

"Did the psychopath contaminate my scene?" He drawls out, slightly irritated and annoyed. I presume not a fan of Sherlock Holmes?

"Not at all, I did before he could." I say sarcastically to him without even realizing it. I grin over at him and I see Anderson's face contort at the sound of that.

Lestrade gives me a careful look, before saying to Anderson, "She's joking, of course." He then looks over at Anderson, he seems confused. We haven't really met and already I'm trying to bust his bollocks. Habits die hard. "Anderson, this is Meredith Wilder. She's assisting us on this case."

"You..." he looks me up and down before looking at me in my eyes somewhat reluctantly. I look myself up and down with my grin before looking up at him. Something wrong with my clothing? "You're the detective from New York that we might take in."

"I believe so." I tell him, extending my hand out to him. I feel like I have shook more hands here than I ever did in New York. He takes my hand in a firm grip, "Meredith, nice to meet you."

"You too," Anderson says softly to me before dropping my hand. I tilt my head up at him before I let it fall to my side. He looks back at Lestrade, "So, did he?"

"As Wilder said, not at all." Lestrade says to him, "You could take this one to St. Bart's with the others and I want to know the type of tire that left those tracks there." He points to the tracks where Anderson was before. "Sherlock said it belonged to a tire usually on a truck, so I want to check on that. It would eliminate some things. Also, look up any missing persons from the University of London, I think if we find our vic, she will be there."

"Will do," Anderson says to us before he goes to turn around, but I stop him.

"When you mentioned psychopath, did you mean Sherlock Holmes?" I ask him curiously. Anderson, who has already turned around. He now reluctantly turns back around to face me. "He doesn't seem that psychopathic to me."

"You only just met him though. But he doesn't seem at all strange to you?"

"Just because he's strange doesn't mean he's a psychopath, Anderson." I tell him carefully. Anderson is looking at me, almost as if he is judging me. But he doesn't reply to me. Maybe because there is no use replying to me. I might be strange, myself, and I am, but I don't see how psychopath actually relates to Sherlock. The only thing that would point to it would be his smirk after looking over a body, but that would be it. Anderson turns around to go to where his men are before I turn to Lestrade. "Is Sherlock Holmes a psychopath?"

He shakes his head no to me, but I see some doubt in his eyes. "He does get off on cases like this, he's highly intelligent, and isn't paid." Lestrade doesn't even pay him to do this? "But... I don't think that really classifies him as one. He's a brilliant man, but I think one day he could be a good one. He definitely could."

"Well, I do see why you need him then." I tell him softly. "He sees things that most can't."

"Exactly." Lestrade states to me.

"So... what do I do now?" I ask him curiously. Lestrade looks over at me now, with a frown on his face, his forehead still scrunched as if he is concentrating on something. "Do you want me to get that cup of coffee that I should have gotten before?"

"Yes, that'll be good." Lestrade says to me with a nod of his head. He does look like he needs a nice cup of coffee. "If you get me a coffee with milk and sugar, we'll go see if they have him on the video camera. There has to be at least two or three here."

"Will do then. I'll meet you by the security offices." I say to him before turning on my heel. This is going to be a very interesting day. I head back to the airport, hoping for a café that might be inside of there.

* * *

_Yes, I know, kind of going a bit slow, but it will pick up soon. I hope I got Sherlock in character, I found it a little difficult writing him at first but as I went along, it kind of gotten a little better. Now it either flowed because I got him completely wrong, or I got him on point. Don't know which, haha. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and as I said, I promise it will go a bit quicker as it goes on. And I'm going along with some episodes from the series, in fact, this starts before The Blind Banker._

_BTW: Did anyone see Star Trek: Into Darkness yet? Oh my God, I couldn't keep my eyes off of Benedict, my family was getting annoyed with me about it. Loved it, he was absolutely brilliant and I think he stole the show. _

_And, maybe now I'll tell you, I have a Facebook page you all could like for sneak peaks on chapters and sometimes I would put a status about a story. I also do character physical looks and bios on there as well. If you want to like it, the link is on my profile. I really don't care whether or not you do, but if you do, that'll be great. I also like using it to connect with my readers. _

_Okay, now I'm done with this long author's note that most of you may or may not have skipped over. Thank you for reading!_


	4. Behind the Smile

_Very, very quick update... but this was surprisingly, a really fun chapter to write... lol. I didn't even expect to write it so soon, but whatever. Worked on this all day and hopefully it came out as I hoped it would. Each chapter just becomes over 7,000 words, I haven't written like this in a while. Hope you enjoy the new chapter, thank you to those who showed their support whether it was through favoriting, alerting, liking me on Facebook, or reviewing (even though I didn't get any last chapter, but that's okay, they aren't really required for me to continue writing this). Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter Three: Behind the Smile**

"_If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future." -Winston Churchill_

I almost stumble into the Cumberland Inn, I feel a stupid grin on my face as I take out my keys from my pocket. The landlady stares at me, but I ignore her as I saunter right in. I could take the lift to my room, but that seems tedious. I'd rather take the stairs. So I do. My vision blurs as I step on each individual step, my hand guiding me up the railing is the only sense of direction that I have. When I have made it to my floor, I open the door to walk down the hall. I don't really walk straight like I usually do, eventually my hand finds the hall's wall and like the stairs' railing, it's my only way of knowing where I'm going.

"There she goes just a walking down the street singing, 'do-i-didy-didy-done-didy-do,'" I softly sing to myself. I like to sing when I'm on the brink of being drunk. "She looks good," I hold the key in my hand tightly as I pause for a moment, stopping at my room. I push the key inside of the lock before I go inside of the room. "She looks fine, she looks good, she looks fine and I nearly lost my mind."

I close the door quietly and don't even bother turning on my light. I begin to hum now as I walk to my bed, not even paying attention to my room. When I collapse on the top of it, not even pulling back the sheets, the light flickers on. "Have fun at the pub?"

The familiar deep voice brings me to open my eyes and I pick up my head slowly to see Sherlock Holmes standing by the light switch. A groan escapes my mouth as my head drops. This is not real, this is not real, maybe I am drunk, and maybe I am drunk dreaming. Happened before... "This is a lovely little home that you have." Sherlock adds on before pulling a chair from next to my dresser. He sits down on top of it before crossing his legs. "Is that a fake Mona Lisa over there?"

"What do you think?" I mumble into the bed. I think I'm humouring the hallucination as if he's actually here. I don't know why I would hallucinate him. I haven't seen him since this morning, nor do I really want to right now. "Does a Mona Lisa smirk or smile?"

"Did you paint that?"

"I would paint a better looking Mona Lisa than that one any day. I don't even know why would someone even want that in their bedroom. Now, go away." With that, I move my head back into the bed and breathe in the comforter. Maybe, one day, I'll wash it for this place because it smells God awful. Once I said 'go away' the room goes quiet, making me actually smile to myself. See? He was a figment of my imagination, not really here. Why would Sherlock Holmes be in my room, and talking about the fake Mona Lisa?

How would he even find where I am? My thoughts, however, are soon proven wrong. "Funny, how you have a Mona Lisa in your hotel room." Sherlock starts to me, making my eyes actually widen and I look up again to see him looking down at me expectantly. He elaborates, "You two have more than enough in common, don't you think?"

I slowly sit up from my bed as Sherlock tilts his head at me curiously. I'm not dreaming... or hallucinating. If I were, he would be gone already. The sitting Sherlock Holmes is silent now, waiting for my response to him being here. "How are you possibly in my—?"

"Oh, now you are finally noticing that I am here?" Sherlock asks me crossing his arms over his chest. "You must have had some night, coming in and not even walking in a straight line or noticing that I have broken in your room when coming in. You would have usually unless you had plenty to drink. Probably thought that I wasn't even real at first, which is why you are looking at me as if you are seeing me for the first time in here and you talked to me before like it was actually _normal_ that I am here."

"I didn't have... that many drinks." I tell him slowly, I only had a shot, or two... maybe even three. I'm not as much of a lightweight as some may think. And the three shots I have weren't strong, I didn't have them one after the other either, I waited a bit before ordering my next. My mind is somewhat clearing up now and it isn't as cloudy as it was when I came in here. Sherlock narrows his eyes at me, not believing a word of that. "Now, tell me why you are here and how did you get here?"

"Come on, Meredith, you were clever enough to figure out a possible link today at the crime scene. I would think that you figured it out already because it's actually quite obvious." Sherlock states to me simply.

I stare at him before tilting my head up and parting my mouth slightly. I think it through for a moment, but being tipsy can make your thinking a little difficult. I am maybe more conscious than I was before, but I still don't feel like I'm in the right shape to make up a clever reason as to why he's here. Even if I didn't drink though, I don't think I would have it figured out. "I'm sorry, mind's not as clever as it was earlier today. Maybe you can just tell me."

"You had an unnoticeable trace of alcohol in your breath today, meaning that you actually had a drink this morning before entering on the crime scene. Were you nervous?"

"That wasn't the answer that I wan—."

"Were you nervous?" He asks me again, this time more slowly and a little bit more harshly.

I grit my teeth together. Sherlock stares at me with an intense gaze before raising his eyebrows as if he is prompting me to speak for myself now. "Yes, it was a job interview, Sherlock. Not everyone can just make up a profession to have work, some of us have to be interviewed to get work and I was being tested, like I still am being tested, while on that crime scene."

"Why would a hot-shot detective from New York have reason to be nervous when she has worked with Scotland Yard before as an officer? Wouldn't that make it a little bit easier than everyone else to get the job?" Sherlock inquires to me, moving his hands to steeple under his chin. His eyes are almost piercing my own as if he is trying to force me to speak. But I don't answer him, I can tell already that Sherlock likes the sound of his own voice.

He definitely does because he barely waits for my reply, "I find it a little strange that you were nervous this morning. When I talked to Lestrade about you, he said that you were almost as brilliant as me. With a few simple glances, you figured out that he was having issues at home, mostly with his wife and that he spends his nights on the couch, you actually said that he spent his nights on the couch for months. You also figured out that John was an army doctor. I introduced him as a doctor but you caught on to simple observations that made you believe that he was part of the army at one point. So, I don't understand why you were so nervous on the scene when you are hardly an amateur in these sort of things, which leads me to believe that you are hiding something."

"Oh, really?" I ask him with my eyebrow raised, the corner of my mouth twitches in what I think might be a smirk, but I'm not so sure. His words make me want to cringe.

"Yes, really, and because of that, that is why I'm here. Does that answer your question, Meredith?"

"Not really, no." I tell him honestly before standing up. Him being here is detoxing the alcohol in me, I actually have something to do now instead of loitering about in my room. Sherlock furrows his brow at me. I hold both of the hands behind my back. "That isn't the only reason you're here, you've noticed other things this morning that you couldn't keep quiet in that very big of head of yours."

"I'm sorry, what do you—?"

"Sherlock, I may have had a bit to drink that morning, but a bit of whiskey in my coffee to actually spice up my mood does not impair me like you may think it would," I tell him, biting my lip. He is keeping his other thoughts about me from that morning to himself. I know he is, but why is he? He likes talking, so why doesn't he continue on talking? I saw how he looked at me, he definitely knew that I was somewhat lying to him. "I'm not a moron, so if you have any other things to say that you have found strange about me, say it."

"Oh, you really want me to continue on?" He says to me, looking forward at my bed instead of looking at me. I look down at him before I walk over to the side.

I nod my head to him slowly, "Only if you have anything to continue on with, but please whatever you do have, don't hold back. That would make me start thinking less of you, Holmes."

"Fine then," Sherlock starts to me before standing up as well. I almost take a step back when he turns toward me. He folds his hands behind his back as he takes a step toward me. "When I left the crime scene, I researched you and asked around. Apparently you have been an officer in Scotland Yard five years ago before moving to New York three years ago."

"So, what does that have to do with anything?"

"No one in Scotland Yard in the time span of five years and other officers know who you are."

"You asked everyone in Scotland Yard? I don't believe that at all." I tell him with my eyebrow raised. I hardly believe that he went around asking people about me. That's ridiculous and too tedious to do when trying to prove a point.

"I asked the people who _mattered._" Sherlock says to me shortly. "And they all haven't heard of you until today. Someone, at least _one_ person should have an idea of who you are, you couldn't be invisible to people in those two years, you have to have known_ someone_ at a higher position than you, so that leads me to think that you never even worked in Scotland Yard in the first place."

"Maybe you asked the wrong people then, because I can tell you some stories about my time in Scotland Yard. Plenty of them actually." I lie to him with a small grin.

"I don't ask the wrong people." He says flatly.

Sarcastically, I comment, "I bet you don't. But this is what you do then? When you should be investigating the case, you research the new girl because you have some suspicions of her? Doesn't that distract you away from it?"

"I know all I need to know for now on the case, I've figured out what I could. But then I got curious about you and thought that I should do some investigating on my own because for all I know Lestrade and the other idiots at Scotland Yard haven't noticed how strange it is how you just popped out of the blue."

"I didn't really pop out of the blue, I've worked at Scotland Yard. You are practically wrong about everything you just said." For a moment, my eyes flicker away from his. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Sherlock chuckles deeply at me and looks up at my mouldy ceiling for a moment. I frown at him. Why would I do that? I'm a good liar, I have lied almost about my whole life these past three years, and yet here? I'm falling apart. Not just with him either, but with the others. I stammered when I was around Donovan and Lestrade today also. I told them that I was nervous and when we were at the hospital waiting for the man who found the body to come around, I left them, saying I will see them tomorrow and I needed to rest. They understood me and allowed me to go, but that was around five o'clock after we came back from an early dinner together. Since then I was roaming around the streets of London for two hours before finding myself at a pub near the inn.

And yet, lying all the time in America, is far different lying all the time here. I wait until he stops chuckling, but he asks me almost immediately after, "What university did you go to, Meredith?"

"Wh—?"

"If you aren't lying right now, then that should be a simple answer for you. You would say it almost immediately after I ask it because that isn't something you really need to think about." He tells me looking directly at me now. I breathe in slowly through my nose and don't make any reply to him. He goes on, "But I'll give you a second chance. What university did you go to, Meredith, to get your criminal justice education?"

I don't remember that. I say the first college that comes into mind because I don't think I would be so stupid enough to put anything different. "Oxford."

"Wrong." He says quickly and loudly. Wrong? How is that wrong? "According to your records, you attended the University of London." A proud look crosses his face as he points his finger at me. I purse my lips and stare pointedly at that finger and take a small step away from him. A look of annoyance crosses my face. His finger soon falls and he narrows his eyes at me with a smirk beginning to form. "You are a very convincing liar on paper, but in person, I have to say, I'm horribly disappointed in you."

"So, what? I'm lying about where I have gone to college. That still doesn't prove your point about me not ever working with Scotland Yard, now does it?" I challenge him, trying to regain my smirk again to make myself seem at ease, but it is the hardest thing that I tried to do today. I give up halfway through and like that morning, sitting in Scotland Yard, my heart beats against my chest loudly and it is the only thing that I am able to hear.

He shakes his head no. "But the way you barely look me in the eye sometimes tells me that you have never worked with them," he tells me in a cold voice as he tilts his head up. He takes a few more steps forward and though I take one back, he still is, at least a foot away from me. His tall stature towers over my short stature slightly and I try my best to keep my gaze up at him as I cross my arms protectively over my chest. "You did the same when you told me that your nose was not a fake at the scene of the crime today as well. I was right there, I know I was and you know that I was. So stop pretending that you are who you say you are and tell me honestly who you _really _are."

"Where's John?" I ask him, quickly changing the subject. Where was his assistant in all of this? His brow furrows at the question at first, but I don't think I need to elaborate on this question. John Watson... the two of them seemed attached this morning and it is strange right now to see Sherlock without him right now. Maybe changing to this subject would make him never get back to the current one.

Though he seems puzzled as to why I would ask that, he answers it, "He's on a date, had been since eight o'clock. He could be back at our flat now, but he doesn't really matter as of this moment." They share a flat together? I would have asked him about that, but he goes on to say, "Now, don't try to change the subject, Meredith. You are obviously a fraud because not only does all the obvious points lead to it, you have a faker name than Smith. So, why don't you just admit that you are fake and we'll go from there?"

"I have a faker name than Smith?" I ask him. I frown to really myself because I remember spending some time picking out a name before I settled on this one. I remember because Paul was crossed with me that I didn't do it so quickly. Now that I really think of it, Meredith Wilder sounds something out of an action film rather than real life. "I didn't really think so when I picked it out of the many I wanted."

"So, you admit it?"

"Admit what? That I'm a fraud? That my identity is a fake?" I inquire to him rhetorically; he looks like he is planning to answer though even if I would rather him not to. "Yes, Sherlock, you caught me. I'm a sham." A small smile reaches his face, but he doesn't show his teeth. My heart slows down somewhat, but all I hear in my head now is obscene shouts coming from somewhere. But there is something about Sherlock Holmes that makes me believe that he is not going to tell anyone really about me. I don't know what, but I feel him coming in my room and waiting for me is really more for himself to get the truth about something that he knew was right. I don't have to tell him though who exactly I am, that's a little bit too personal.

He, however, is still looking at me expectantly. He wants to know more, I'm guessing? "What?" I ask him.

"So... who are you?"

I smirk over at him and drop my arms from my chest before slowly walking over to the chair he was sitting on top of before. I look down at my feet as my hand skims over the top of the wood. "That's something that might just have to be kept in secret, Sherlock." With that, I plop down into the chair and cross my legs. The smirk on my face growing wider once I see the proud, pompous look on his face actually fall.

"What?"

I chuckle lightly, shaking my head in disbelief. He really didn't think that once I tell him that I am a fraud that I will give him a chance to find out who I really am? That's absurd! "Oh, come on, Sherlly—."

"Don't call me 'Sherlly.'" He says to me through his teeth.

"Fine then," I tell him, he seems now partly angry since I have said no to him. I continue on, "_Sherlock_, I have to have some dignity. It's not a problem for me to really admit to you that my fake identity is indeed a fake, but to tell you who I am? Now, I may be a bit of a risk-taker, but I think that is bordering dangerous now, don't you think? If I tell you who I am, how am I to be so sure that you will not turn me into Scotland Yard?"

"I can still tell Lestrade that he is allowing someone with a fake identity in his cases." Sherlock tries to reason with me and I shake my head at him, that's all he got? That's not even a threat.

I counter him almost immediately, almost not even thinking at first before even saying it, "Oh, really? And what makes you think that he'll believe you?"

"He has been taking my word as gospel for five years. He wouldn't stop now, Wilder."

"I thought I told you to call me Meredith." I tease, leaning slightly forward and propping my elbows on the top of my knee to hold up my chin.

"Does it matter what I call you? They are both fake names." Sherlock says to me bitingly, I can see a vein popping out of his neck now. Either it is from him spitting his anger at me or him now becoming a little bit impatient and irritated with me. I think I would be too if I was in his position. But I'm not.

"Touché." I tell him shortly. "But I can just as easily study up on Meredith for a bit before you do and disprove all that you have said. Plus, it's just as easy to pay off some officers here like it is in New York to make up and back up some stories that they have or I have about me. I can pull a bunch of information out of my arse. Also, you wouldn't turn me in to Lestrade, even if you wanted to, Sherlock."

"Oh, really? Why's that?" Sherlock asks me, looking a little interested to hear my reasoning.

"You're too much like me. You wouldn't turn me in because you would want to figure it out yourself. And if you did turn me in, you really wouldn't know the full extent of who I am and it wouldn't be as much fun as it would be if you spent time to figure it out, would it?" His face softens at this and his vein that's either from anger or impatience settles down. Telling him I'm a fraud seems to have boosted my confidence just a bit, I am actually amused now. Entertained. This is better than sleeping at midnight, since it is... around midnight. Wow, he really is in my room at midnight? That could send the wrong message to some people.

"So, I have to basically figure it out?"

"Yes, don't you want to?" I ask him now leaning back in the chair. "I mean, I would if I were you."

"And what exactly would happen if I do figure it out?"

"Oh, I don't know," I shrug my shoulders and close my eyes for a moment. He doesn't really need an incentive to figure this out, does he? He doesn't get one solving cases, so he probably doesn't need it. He's just asking just to ask. I open my eyes and I suggest, "A pat on the back?" He doesn't make a reply or really an acknowledgement, but I think he gets the message from me that I really find him stressing over who I am very amusing. "Now, is that all you came here for? To... learn about me?"

"Pretty much," Sherlock nods his head to me. I move my head up and down back at him before he actually has the audacity to go and leave my room as if that is all he really had to say to me. He tightens his scarf around his neck as he inches toward the door and I raise my brow as my eyes follow him to it.

"You still never answered my question. Sherlock, how did you even get in my room?" I ask him before he even has a chance to leave the room. He stops at the door, his gloved hand actually gripping the door frame. He doesn't turn around to face me to answer this question, nor does he answer it right away. I don't make to ask the question again since it would be pointless, he obviously already heard it.

He reluctantly turns on his heel and leans his figure against the frame of my door. "You were deported and most deported British citizens would come here. It was simple enough. Your landlady had let me in when I stated that I was an old friend of yours, but she didn't say whether or not you were here. You weren't, so I picked the lock to come in and relocked it so I could wait privately for you to come back."

"When did you come here?"

"Nine o'clock." He was sitting in my room for three hours just waiting for me to come back? I stare at him in disbelief for a moment before I just shake my head. I'm beginning to learn that I shouldn't really ask questions now in regards to him.

"I didn't really think that I was worth waiting for, but that just makes me seem more important." I tell him with a fake grin. Sherlock at the doorway rolls his eyes at me and then once again, he tries to leave my room without a goodbye. My fake grin falls once I hear the door actually shut and he disappears behind it. That isn't right at all. I get up from my chair before thinking of a way to get him back here for a moment and quickly open the door to see him walking down the corridor in a way that makes such an air of arrogance just swirl around him. "Sherlock!" I call from my room. I carefully look up and down the corridor to see if any angry people heard that before I turn my head to see him reluctantly turn around to face me.

"What is it now?" What is his rush? I just want to speak with him. I haven't really spoken to someone in six hours and the first one that I am speaking to is walking away from me like I am infected with the bloody plague.

I think of the best possible thing to bring up to him. And then I remember what I really saw today at the the airport. What he probably didn't want me to see... of all people. "If you do happen to decide to tell Lestrade about me being someone that I am not, then I will tell him that I am not the only person of the two of us who is hiding something from him."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side before he walks back over to my room. I see his cupid bow lips actually part at this, but he tries to maintain composure when he approaches me. Although, I can see the genuine astonishment in his eyes. "I don't know what you are—."

"I saw you, Sherlock," I cut him off swiftly and hold my hand out for him to put the small piece of paper in. He stops in front of me a few feet away. His eyes narrow down at my opened hand. "You pocketed a message from the killer that fell out of the locket. Only John and I actually saw you do it." He raises his eyes up to mine. "Do you always withhold evidence?"

"Only when I see it necessary." He tells me softly, but coldly. I wish it was a gentle whisper. He sounds more like a five year old that has been caught stealing out of his mummy's cookie jar, bratty and sullen. "The police wouldn't even be able to figure it out if they have it."

"Well, then, obviously you still hadn't met me." I say to him with a hint of mockery in my voice. He looks at me as if I have ten heads, maybe I do. "If you give me the message now, I won't tell Lestrade a word about it."

"Why should I?" Sherlock asks me, his voice actually dropping a notch when I see both of his hands go into his pockets almost protectively. "What makes you think that I have it with me now?"

"You might not have it with you right now, but I think you do." I tell him honestly, my eyes briefly glancing down at his hand that is making the most noise in his coat pocket. He has it in his right pocket. What else would he be playing around with? Not his phone because... honestly, who would play with their phone without looking at the screen of it? "You seem to be the type who carries things with him until he has figured something out with whatever it is. Just in case you are in a shop and you find a clue that would lead to what is so important about it, you have it so you don't have to go back to that flat of yours. It could disappear by the time you get to your flat."

"Even if I do have it now, it won't be of any use to you." He tells me seriously, straightening his back and tilting his head up as if he thinks he succeeded. Not even close.

I offer him a small smile before I say to him, "Why don't you let me see and I'll let you know if it is of any use to me?" Sherlock narrows his eyes at me as if to intimidate me. Like I said, he's like a five year old. I really hardly expected him to be this way when confronting him about this. "Sherlock..." I start to him carefully and lean my head forward. I wiggle my fingers attached to my hand to show him that I'm waiting for him to lay the piece of paper in it. He looks down at my hand for a moment. I can almost see the gears in his head turning as he debates whether or not he should.

With the hand that he has been holding the paper in, he puts the killer's message in the palm of my own. My small smile grows a bit wider as I look down at the palm of my hand. "Thank you."

"Happy now?"

"Ecstatic." I mutter to him as I unfold the paper in my hand. What I expected to be a cryptic note... turns out to be exactly it. I frown down at it confused and soon I feel Sherlock's gloved finger skim my hand to get to the paper. He points to the coded message before he speaks.

"It's a Four—."

"Square cipher." I finish for him. I turn the paper over, hoping to see something else there, but there is nothing else other than _'FE ZL FV – ML ZK ML FU OG ZD FC ZF' _on the front. "I know what this is."

"You've seen this before?" He asks me, sounding a little surprised. My turn to roll my eyes at him, if he really did his research on me then he should have known that I specialized in codes while with the NYPD. I look up at him, and almost surprised myself by seeing how close he is to me right now. But through my surprise, I actually nod my head to him.

I admit to him, "I haven't seen it though in a while. Not very popular nowadays."

"So, then you must know why it's impossible to decipher it."

"Of course I do," I say rather flatly before looking down at the note with a frown. This could be anything, an address, a name, etc. And yet, we still are missing part of it to figure it out. "There aren't the two keywords that we would need to solve it, which means, what you just gave me is something that could be vital." I add looking up at him, he takes back his hand from mine and it falls to his side. "Thank you for just handing it over to me."

"Most likely the killer would send something that relates to those keywords."

"But only when the time is right he will, most likely when he knows that he will meet his demise." I finish for him before putting the note in my pocket. I take a step back in my room and hold the door with one hand. Sherlock looks almost as if he didn't expect me to catch to his deduction. It's late, I came back from the pub about twenty minutes (at most), I don't think I would have believed it either. "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes." With that, I go to shut the door, but now he assumes it's his turn to stop me from leaving. He grabs the door with a strong hand before I could even shut it in his face.

I raise my brow at this. "What are you going to say to Lestrade about finding this note?" He asks me. Was that concern I almost hear lacing in his voice? I actually doubt it. He's probably more concerned for himself than little old me, I wouldn't even be concerned for myself if I were him.

"I was planning on putting the blame on someone we equally dislike." I tell him simply. He raises his eyebrow at me at the sound of that, I can probably guess what he's thinking right now.

"Who?"

"Anderson."

At the sound of that, I hear an actual laugh rumble out of the mouth of Sherlock's and a grin shows up on his face. His laugh is deep and as he looks away from me, I actually find myself grinning back at him and a soft laugh escapes me as I turn my head away from him. I wasn't going to say Anderson, but he was the first name that popped into my head. I don't think that they are friends, who would call a friend a psychopath when they clearly weren't? Well, he has something wrong with him, but psychopath, I don't think that's right. When we both stop laughing, I tell him, "I'm assuming that is okay by you."

"Very much so." He replies to me with a nod, a small smile is still on his face.

"Okay, then. Now, goodnight." Sherlock then nods his head at me to assure the same. Even though he does not voice it, I know he means it as a goodnight. I close the door slowly in case either one of us decides that we aren't ready to really say goodnight and when I do close the door, I go to the dresser to take out my sweatpants and a t-shirt. Once I take them both out, I hear my phone go off on the other side of the room. My eyebrow raises almost immediately and I look down at myself confused. I could have sworn that I had it in my back pocket like I always do.

I throw my nightwear onto my bed before I walk over to my night stand to see my phone with an unknown number light up its screen. My head tilts as I put my password in quickly to see the new text. You could only imagine who it is from.

_**I did happen to figure out one thing about you. -SH**_

I look up from the phone before looking back down at it with narrowed eyes, before looking back up again. My mouth opens and closes like a fish would do in water. I type in the only reply I could think of.

_**How did you even get this number? -MW**_

I wait for a moment for my reply, which comes to me in almost a split second.

_**I picked your pocket when you weren't looking. -SH**_

What in the bloody hell? I glance behind me to see roughly how my sweatshirt is barely covering the top of my jeans. I didn't even feel him actually go back there.

_**How did you possibly manage that? -MW**_

Once I sent that, I almost regret it. I quickly text him again before he replies.

_**Change my mind, I don't want to know. What did you happen to figure out about me? -MW**_

His next reply takes longer than his last, but that can happen when you receive two messages at once. My phone makes a beeping noise and I look down to see his reply. I smirk to myself.

_**You went to Oxford University. -SH**_

_**Very good. Now go and find out my graduating class so you can narrow down your guess. -MW**_

He got that went to Oxford right, let's see if Sherlock figures out that I dropped out of Oxford and didn't get my PhD from their law program. My phone goes off again. My eyes roll.

_**I do not guess. -SH**_

I type in a quick reply before dropping my phone onto the dresser to go and get changed for bed.

_**Goodnight, Sherlock. -MW**_

* * *

"_'You know it's thriller, thriller at night!"_ A groan escapes my mouth as I slowly pick up my head, the sun is barely making its way through the ratty curtains, but it is bright enough to actually make me squint my eyes. _"You're fighting for your life, inside a killer thriller tonight, yeah! Thriller, thriller at night!" _My head falls down on the top of my pillow as I allow my hand to search for my phone that is laying on the empty pillow next to mine. The obnoxious ringtone blares even louder as it repeats the chorus of Thriller and once my hand finds it, I press the answer button without even looking at the caller ID.

"What?" I say rudely into the receiver. However, it might have not come out so rudely since my voice is somewhat muffled by my pillow.

"Meredith," Lestrade's voice comes through and immediately my head picks up. My eyes go to the clock hanging on the wall to see what time it is. I do know that I am supposed to meet him at St. Bart's around 10:30 in the morning, but I somewhat know it's barely even near that time and more so the time that I have to get up to take a shower anyway. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?" His voice sounds apologetic, but that doesn't mean that I want to admit that I just woke up. It's exactly 9 in the morning. I don't have to see Lestrade for another hour and a half.

I shake my head against the phone, lying, "No." My voice comes out groggy and quickly I go to clear my throat to make it sound like I really haven't been sleeping. I continue to him quickly, my voice a little more clearer this time, "No, I'm just sitting... eating some breakfast."

"Oh, great then. Glad I caught you at the right time." My mind immediately goes to the worse. Usually when someone would ask that they would have a favour or something to follow shortly after. He goes on, "Do you think you can come to St. Bart's in thirty minutes or so?" _What?_

"Uh, yeah sure." _WHAT?!_ My mouth speaks faster than my mind can think. I can barely take a fifteen minute shower and I don't know if I can even make it that today. I put a hand through my hair and ask him, "Why? What's going on?"

"There's something you need to see," is all he states to me. I would like for him to elaborate on that, but a part of me just wants it as a surprise. "Just text me when you are on your way." And with that said, Lestrade hangs up the phone before I even have a chance to say 'okay.' The phone falls limply out of my hand and I get out of my bed slowly like sloth. I lazily pick out a little more professional outfit that surprisingly doesn't need to be pressed and go into the bathroom to get ready.

The shower takes seventeen minutes exactly. I throw on my clothes once I dry my body and brush my teeth for two minutes. I quickly blow-dry my hair, or try to do so at the same time as brushing my teeth, and when I am done I decide on throwing my hair in a messy bun and put my contacts in my eyes. I don't even put on any make-up and I am out of the bathroom thirty minutes from when I first went in. Pretty impressive. When I go to my phone to put it in my pocket, I see a text message from Lestrade that was five minutes ago. I raise my eyebrow at it before I decide to pull it up.

_**I'm already there and waiting for you. I'm also trying to reach Sherlock but he isn't picking up his phone. -L**_

I try my best not to sigh at this as I shake my head. Why is he telling me that he is having trouble reaching Sherlock? I don't really care. I can act like I do care though.

_**I'm about to leave the inn to meet you. Have you tried reaching John? -MW**_

Why do I have the strangest feeling that—

_**I did, and John had to go into work. Do you think that you could pick him up on the way? -L**_

—that he was going to ask me to pick up Sherlock? I toss my head back and actually groan loudly at this. That is not what I want to do right now. I mean, really. It really isn't what I want to do right now. But I find myself typing in my reply before my mind would change.

_**Sure, if he pays for my cab ride. What's his address? -MW**_

I couldn't just say no! I'm trying to get a job with Scotland Yard now. If Lestrade wants Sherlock, I'll get him Sherlock... even though I really don't think we both need him.

_**221B Baker Street. Thanks a lot, I really appreciate it. -L**_

_**No problem. See you there. -MW**_

I pocket my phone before I take my wallet off of my night stand. I quickly glance inside of it to see how much money I actually have on me. I frown when I only see my credit card inside of it and a couple of bills. Whatever, I don't care. I put my wallet inside of my coat pocket and then go to leave the room.

* * *

_Hope you enjoyed the chapter and found it as much fun as I had while writing it haha. So thoughts? Concerns? Criticism? Don't forget to lay it on me. _

_Though this was a fast update, I don't know when the next one would be :(. Last week of high school this week so I will definitely be busy with finals and stuff and... graduation o_0. Also with last minute college things that I still haven't done. We'll see though, I wasn't going to post this chapter until Wednesday and yet here I am lol. If you hadn't checked me out of FB, I did post the character bios for House of Cards, the face characters of all the OCs that will show up and will be mentioned (and if more are I would add them while we go on) in the story, and I also made some covers (for the first time too if I may add) for this story (only two since I'm still getting the hang of it.)_

_I believe that is all I have to say for now... I maybe babbled like I usually do. So like I said, thoughts, concerns, criticism, anything you want to say, even if it is only a hello, lay it on me. I don't bite ;) I don't think anyway. Have a lovely day and thank you for reading!_


	5. Bonnie & Clyde

_Hello! Now, I am going to make a really quick author's note. Thank you to all the support from last chapter! It means so much and I'm glad you guys are liking it. I'm also changing the rating of the story also, I don't think I'm really going to do so much **M**_ _related stuff until much later, and I'm still debating on doing mature, mature material. We'll see, but I'm lowering the rating to **T.** Well, hope you enjoy the new chapter!_

* * *

**Chapter Four: Bonnie & Clyde**

"_Don't go around saying that the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first." -Mark Twain_

"You can just go right on up, dear. Sherlock is in one of his moods again." Mrs. Hudson says to me with a sweet smile, I smile back at her before stepping into 221b. Unlike the person she is renting her flat out to, she is so nice. She answered the door for him while I was waiting outside, it was beginning to rain once I arrived. I forgot about how much it actually rains here until standing in it. She reminds me of my grandmother with that smile. My grandmother's name was Anne. Fun fact: I was actually named after her. They have those same hazel eyes and the same colour hair, only just styled a different way. Mrs. Hudson's hair is short and slightly ruffled to the side while my grandmother's hair was always left down, even when it started turning grey. I haven't realized until now how much I miss her quiet home in Sussex.

I nod my head to Mrs. Hudson with a warm smile, perhaps the warmest since I came to the country, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"I didn't quite catch your name before," Mrs. Hudson says to me before I go upstairs to see Sherlock. My hand touches the railing as my head turns to face her.

"Meredith Wilder." I state to her simply.

She closes the door behind her and her smile falters almost at my strange name. Maybe Sherlock was right the night before, it sounds like a fake name. I thought it was better than something with Smith. Though her smile falters for a quick moment, she keeps it on, "That's a rather strange name. Sounds like something out of those films you see in the theatre nowadays." I almost frown at that, but I try not to. That almost ruins my present mood. Whatever.

"Yeah, my parents had a sense of humour." I wish they did. If they did, then maybe I wouldn't have to have what happened to me, actually happen. They were stiffs in suits and dresses, who held fancy parties that I had to go to and act like I belonged there. I turn around to go up the stairs as I hear a soft laugh escape from Sherlock's landlady behind me. I slowly climb up the stairs to Sherlock's flat.

The door to Sherlock's flat is wide open and I, not being one to knock, walk right in. My chest tightens only looking at the the desk far away from the door, how it is cluttered with books and papers. Even my jaw locks, just feeling the natural anxiety that I have usually with messy or cluttered situations. My eyes scan the flat quickly before I lay eyes on Sherlock, who hasn't noticed my existence as of yet. His hands are deep in his back pockets and he is looking at a few pictures taped against the wall over fireplace.

He doesn't pay any mind to me as I walk further in. I look over to the left of me to see a beige coloured couch against a wall. The wallpaper is more appealing than the one in my room in the inn, but someone ruined it with a yellow spray-painted smiley face. Bullet holes marred the smiley face and from those bullet hole the wallpaper peeled slightly back. There is also a strange poster of a skull that is pinned on the wall. A violin rests peacefully on top of an armchair with its bow grazing it gently, another armchair is across from it.

When I look over at the unlit fireplace again, I see a skull looking into the kitchen over many books. There is also a picture frame with a metamorphose chart of something, I would say butterfly, but it doesn't look like it. I don't greet him, I don't snort or anything at him, I simply watch him examine all of those photos in silence, shifting his weight from his toes to his heels. I almost forget about the nice landlady who let me in until her head pokes in from the kitchen. "Would you like a cuppa, Meredith?"

I barely realize my answer when I say, "Yes, please." She's probably going to get me tea and I _hate_ tea. I'm unlike other British folk, maybe that is why I _really_ wanted to get out of here in the first place.

"Don't bother, Mrs. Hudson. She's only humouring you." Sherlock suddenly says, making my head snap over to him. He's paying attention now? "Give her a glass of brandy, that is what she drinks."

"This early?"

"No, not this early." I say to her, sounding a little annoyed. Sherlock tilts his head at that and turns his head slightly toward me, I could have sworn I just saw part of his mouth actually twitch into a smirk. "A cup of tea would be nice, Mrs. Hudson." She smiles at me understandingly before disappearing into the kitchen. Once she does, I look over at Sherlock who is back to focusing on the pictures. "Lestrade has been calling you."

"And I asked John a half hour ago to pick up the phone, which he didn't." Sherlock answers me quickly. My eyes narrow at him confused before I walk slowly in. I stop in front of the coffee table and peek into the kitchen, only to quickly turn my head. His kitchen table is cluttered just like his desk.

I try to not think about it. "John... is at work." I tell him slowly, at least, a half hour ago, I was told John is at work. Sherlock's smirk falls off and he turns his head, as if looking at his flat for the very first time. I look around too just in case John is hiding under the coffee table.

"I must have not noticed," Sherlock admits to me.

"How do you not notice?" I mutter to really myself before I find myself actually sitting comfortably on the armchair right by him, across from the violin. It almost looks like my grandfather's violin that I brought with me, I have no idea how to play it, but it is nice to look at. "Lestrade sent me to—."

"My handler actually sent someone to handle me?" Sherlock asks me. My eyebrow raises slowly at him. Handler? Lestrade is his handler? I purse my lips quietly, unsure if he wants me to actually answer his question. I'm strongly considering to not answer it at all. It seems rhetorical. "What does he want?" He adds to me, almost sounding a little irritated that I mentioned Lestrade. Why does he actually sound irritated? "He knows I'm busy."

"Well," I start, but I find my jaw locking. He's working alongside Lestrade... let me repeat that, _he's working alongside Lestrade._ Did he really just say 'he knows I'm busy' like he is doing something other than the case right now? This man... has surprised me almost every minute in the last twenty-four hours that I have known him. I see why people hate him now, his arrogance is annoying. I continue on to him, "he says he has to show us something."

"Oh, let me guess, he's at St. Bart's?" Sherlock says to me almost exasperated. It seems almost like he thinks I'm wasting his time by being here.

_How did he know that?_ "How did you know that?" I inquire to him, just as the thought of how did he know that passes my head. At least my mind and my mouth are cooperating for once, sometimes my mouth has a mind of its own.

"Lestrade isn't a complete idiot. He probably wants to show me what I already know."

"You already know what he wants you to know?" He doesn't reply to me. His eyes just scan each of the pictures with a scowl on his face as if he is finding whatever connection is missing. My eyes look at the pictures now also and one of the pictures he has, isn't of any of the victims. In fact, she is set apart from all of them. She's _alive_. I try to make him actually tell me what he 'already' knows. I prompt him, "Which is...?"

He turns his head towards me, with a raised brow and a frown. His eyes bore into mine from where he is. I stare at him with a straight face like it doesn't bother me... it doesn't. He then states to me like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "I found Beth."

"Beth?" I ask him slowly. The owner of the locket... how could he have found her? I don't know if I even want to ask.

But before I would even have the chance, he explains, "Yes, the only mystery that was to be solved about this whole thing. What else would Lestrade want to show us? A magic trick?"

"And how exactly did you find that out?" I ask him, how could he really have found the actual 'Beth'? There must be a thousand people who call themselves Beth in London alone. It's probably short for Bethany, a popular name last time I checked. In such a short amount of time, too? What was it, a day, maybe, since he just randomly left?

He scoffs at me, "Child's play." He turns his head to face me before walking slowly away from the taped pictures. One of his arms crosses his chest while he props his arm on top of it, his hand lightly touching his chin. "While you lot decided to wait out on the man who found the body, which was pointless because he wouldn't know anything about the bodies, _I_ went to St. Bart's to check on anyone who had recently died that strongly resembles the victim, Ginger Graham, if you were wondering her name, and someone who died of a brain injury recently with the name of Beth."

"And you found someone?"

"Bethany Malloy, died two years ago from a brain tumour." Sherlock says to me flatly before sitting down in the armchair across from me. "Unfortunately she was buried almost immediately after she died, so we could not get an in person view on her, but we managed to get some pictures of her." My eyes for a moment flicker over to the picture different from the rest of them. It's of Bethany, most likely, sitting in a hospital room smiling brightly, but her skin is pale and her teeth are yellow. The hair on the top of her head isn't real, it's a red wig and it is almost lopsided. If she died from a tumour, she could have undergone chemotherapy. "She has an uncanny resemblance with Ginger."

I try to discredit him, "Bethany in the hospital... is wearing a red wig. How do you really know that she had red hair in the first place?"

"There were other pictures, the one that I have happens to be in between sessions of chemotherapy."

I go to _The_ _Sun_ that is draped over the arm of the chair I'm sitting in and tell him with a nod of understanding, "Oh okay, her hair was lopsided and looked artificial. Too artificial to be dyed."

"I don't think I really asked about how you _knew_ her hair in the picture was a wig." Sherlock nearly scowls at me, his blue-green eyes look almost intense. My brow furrows over at him before I look down at the paper, opening it to the puzzle section to see if they are solved already. I hear a loud sigh come from across from me and someone gently placing a cup of tea next to me.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I tell her before taking the pen off the table next to me. Someone started the Sudoku, but it doesn't look right. "Who did the Sudoku? They did it wrong."

"John, most likely." Sherlock drawls out. I scribble out one of the fours I see in the same column.

"John tells me that you're looking for a flat," Mrs. Hudson starts to me randomly and I look over at her with my eyebrow raised curiously. I put the pen in my lap for a moment, almost intrigued. "I've an empty flat if you're interested."

"Oh, rea—?"

"She's not interested, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock rudely interrupts me with an almost bored expression. I snap my head over at him irritated. "What? It's a basement flat, which is cold and damp. Not really an ideal place for someone like you."

I turn my head back to Mrs. Hudson with a small smile, "Maybe I'll come by one day to check it out." Although, I'm not really a fan of basement flats. I don't want to admit that he is right... not now. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Her hand pats my shoulder for a quick second before she walks away from the two of us. Against my will, I pick up the cup of tea to take a quiet sip out of it. Surprisingly the tea isn't half bad, perhaps the best cup I had in years. Though it's not as bad as I thought before, the hot liquid leaves a scathing burn on my tongue that makes my face contort slightly. Just came from the kettle, it seems. I put the cup down slowly. "Did you tell the police that you found Beth? Or did you keep it to yourself?"

"There are three people dead, there is no time to actually tell the police my status 24/7."

"Yet you had time to actually wait for me in my room last night?" I retort to him.

"By that time, I couldn't really go on with the case so I went to investigate something that was nagging me all day."

"What do you mean?" I ask him going back to the puzzle in the paper. I barely think while doing it, putting in the missing numbers while waiting for an answer to come out of Sherlock's mouth. "You found Beth. You couldn't find those who were related to her so we could take them in and question them?"

"Her mother died during childbirth and her father had been in Ireland for the past three months," Sherlock says to me almost bored with this. Sorry that I'm a little boring. "It's impossible for either to be brought in, the father would be a waste of time since he was gone when the murders began."

"We could question the father to see if he knows someone who would do this." I try to reason.

"He wouldn't know." Sherlock says to me quickly. "I was right yesterday, the girl represents a daughter. It couldn't be the father because he left to go see family. It's impossible for him to be involved. The mother died, so impossible."

"If the victim is supposed to represent the daughter, how do you explain the other two?" I ask him, even though I feel like we went through this already the day before. It doesn't really add up. I look up at him in time to see the corner of his mouth twitch into a frown and he furrow his brow and begins to stare at something in the middle of the floor. I actually think that that is what has baffled him with this case. "I mean, I thought at first that it was because he was choosing his victims at random, but now—."

"Shut up," Sherlock nearly growls at me before he closes his eyes. Shut up? Did he just tell me to shut up? "It's annoying when you talk out loud about the obvious."

"I'm just stating—."

"I know you are, just shut up so I can think." He tells me before he slowly places his fingers on the temples of his eyes. A puzzled look crosses my face as I lean back into my chair. I cross my legs, sensing that I might be here for a really long time. I almost jump when I hear a long breath of air being sniffed by Sherlock. I wonder briefly what is going on inside of there, I can almost smell his brain burning from where I am. It seems almost an hour when he finally chuckles lightly, but it had been almost a minute and a half since he told me to shut up. "Of course."

"Of course what?" His eyes open slowly and I could see a smile being developed, a smile that could be almost looked at as sadistic.

"He didn't know what she looked like. He was taking guesses." He quickly stands back up and goes back to the pictures he was staring at before. I couldn't control myself gawking at him and slowly, I stand up and walk over to the pictures. He barely knows my presence next to him exists. "They all have certain similarities." He starts to me, his finger pointing to the three dead bodies. "This one," he points to the one on top to show me, the girl has dark hair, almost black hair, "has the same sort of nose as the other three and it also has the same colour hair, a little darker though, as his second victim. These have some similarities but they aren't exact. And then... he gets his breakthrough." He points down to Ginger.

"You said, well, we all agreed that this represents his daughter? How would he not know what his daughter looks like?" I ask him slowly without even thinking about it. My shoulder briefly brushes against his. I hardly notice it as I narrow my eyes and lean toward one of the pictures. He looks over at me like I have ten heads and then, it hits me like a tidal wave. "He never really met her." I answer on my own. "He's someone the mother slept with around the time she slept with her husband. He could be the actual father of Beth."

"Or think he is."

"But how did he know his daughter died or... that he even had one?"

"He could have been tipped off." Sherlock says to me before walking away suddenly from the pictures. "Someone close to him must have told him what had happened. Actually, that is what could have been most probable to happen." I glance over at him before taking a step toward the pictures.

"So it may have been someone close to Beth that told him." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Sherlock doesn't answer me to confirm this. "Like did she have a brother or sister who may have looked in their mum's diary one day and found him, is what I mean."

"Brother." Sherlock states to me. I turn my head to see him actually getting ready to leave the flat. "Beth had a brother name Jeremy." He shrugs on his long coat and takes the blue scarf off the top of his desk. He ties it around his neck almost like a professional (I don't know how to tie a scarf around my neck for shit) would do. "Phone Lestrade to get him."

"I'll tell him when we get to St. Bart's." I say to Sherlock slowly, almost forgetting that we had to go there together in the first place.

"No time, I'm going to get John."

"John is at work, he just can't go with you."

"Well, that's a pity since I need an _assistant_." He tells me through his teeth.

"Well, take the skull with you. I'm sure he'll give you great company."

"I've done that before, apparently it's not very normal to be talking to a skull in public."

"Then I don't know what to tell you, Holmes," I tell him almost bitingly, crossing my arms over my chest. "If I'm going with you, it's to St. Bart's, since Lestrade is expecting the _both_ of us to come."

"It's a waste of time since we already do know what he wants with the two of us and I figured way more than he has in the past twenty-four hours."

"We _both_ did." I correct him. He's not giving me any sort of credit for at least helping him figure it all out? He rolls his eyes at me before he actually goes to leave his flat with me standing in the middle of it. I shake my head somewhat annoyed now, actually it seems I have been annoyed since I stepped _in _here. I go to the cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson has given me before and take a quiet sip out of it. It doesn't leave a burn like it had last time, but it tickles the burn that is on my tongue still. I put it down before walking over to his bookcase. Though he left, I can still snoop around before I can phone Lestrade to tell him that I have failed in bringing Sherlock Holmes with me to St. Bart's. Whatever.

I take out one of his books seeing the author, Edgar Allen Poe. I smile to myself and mutter, "A fellow fan of Edgar, great." My hand briefly skims over the golden letters of his name before I put it back. The skull is next to me, if it had eyes at one point, they would be staring at me. And it's almost as if it does, since I feel the skull's gaze burning holes in the side of my arm as I take out another book from his messy library. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it is _The Interpretation of Dreams_ by Sigmund Freud. He doesn't seem the type to pay attention to Freud of all people, the man who related everything being motivated by aggression and sex.

I put the book back questionably once I hear someone actually clearing their throat by the entrance of the flat. My head turns toward it to see Sherlock Holmes standing there with his hands in his pockets. "Well?"

I should be embarrassed to be looking through his things, but I'm not. He could have done the same thing to me the night before. "Well what?"

"Are you coming?" It almost seems like the question almost hurts him to even ask me.

"Depends, where are we going?" I ask him, crossing my arms over my chest. He locks his jaw and briefly looks away from me. "Sherlock..."

"Not to St. Bart's." He tells me, looking my way again. "Like I said, I need an assistant."

"Well, I'm not really a good candidate since I'm not going anywhere unless it's to where I have to be." I tell him strongly, putting my foot down... rhetorically. He narrows those strange eyes at me, like it is going to be a battle royale between the two of us. Obviously, he's looking at the victor now, who is going to drag his arse to St. Bart's whether he likes it or not, even though it may be a waste of time for the both of us.

* * *

"Yes, Lestrade, we both know that already." I glare over at Sherlock who is looking down at his Blackberry, his fingers typing away at a text—I think. "He thinks it would be a waste of time for the two of us to go there—he's just not really listening to me." My eyes briefly go to the window of the cab, I barely even recognize the street we are on as of right now.

"Well, just give me a status of where you are so we could be updated." Lestrade doesn't sound annoyed or even impatient on the phone. It's almost like he is used to this from Sherlock. I nod against the receiver like he could see it, but then I remember I'm on the phone with him, not really in front of him.

I reply to him, "Yes, I will. I'll see you soon."

"See you around." With that, I hang up on him and turn to Sherlock who is still typing away. I purse my lips and fixate my eyes on the back of the cabbie's head. Maybe I can start a conversation? It's far too quiet in this cab for someone like me to stand. I turn my head to look over Sherlock's shoulder to see what in the bloody hell is he doing, but then I see the background of his website on his phone. I turn my head quickly, he's actually updating it. I hope he doesn't mention me on it, but I think he hardly treats it as a blog.

I mutter quietly to myself, "I can't believe I'm going through with this."

"It's progress."

"We're going to break into this kid's home."

"Who could be associating himself with the serial killer," Sherlock reasons with me, briefly looking up from his phone. "If you have any better ideas, please share."

"We could wait until we have legal backup."

He scoffs at 'legal backup,' "That'll take too long. This is more effective."

"And what if he's home?" I ask him.

"Then we'll wait until he leaves."

"Wonderful." Sarcasm drips from my voice like it's venom. Sherlock doesn't respond now, we fall back into our previous silence that we had immediately after I hung up with Lestrade. I break it, changing the subject of the case, "So, did you find out who I am yet?"

"You didn't graduate from Oxford and you like to hack into things." Sherlock states to me flatly. How did he figure out about me not graduating from Oxford? "You wouldn't have told me that you graduated, unless you hadn't. It would be far too easy to find you. So you are a drop out, or you've been kicked out."

"It was a mutual agreement between me and the school." I smirk over at him, Sherlock's face doesn't even break into a prideful grin. I don't ask him about the hacking thing, that is something that he could have easily deduced off of me and Lestrade might have told him that when I stupidly mentioned that I hacked into my brother's computer as a teenager. I look forward with my smirk actually falling, "But you are right. One tiny step forward."

"One tiny step is sometimes what we need to figure it all out." He states before looking down at his phone. That actually sounded almost poetic "Was your fiancé the reason you went to New York also?"

I turn my head and lean my arm against the door of the cab. My eyes narrow at him. "Yes." I tell him honestly. "How did you figure that out?"

"It was a lucky hunch, I was only half-expecting to be right about it." Sherlock says flatly. "That and the fact that you are still in love with him." That bit is what surprises me. If it is possible, my eyes narrow further at him like they are the sharp points of daggers. Where did he get that from? Sherlock is not fazed by my glares, he doesn't even acknowledge them as he looks out the window on his side.

I shake my head at him, "That is absurd, he called immigration on me in the States."

"After you two went through a break-up, I presume? One that you commenced. Yes, you are angry that he did what he did, but every time I mention him so far or someone else mentions him, you look away as if you have a memory of him. You also still have the engagement ring in your bathroom like you're debating to put it on one day. Usually, someone would put it on their other hand or wear it around your neck, but not you." He says, now looking directly at me. My face falters and a frown begins to show. "You decide to keep it there. You're in denial of it because he basically ruined your life, making you go on the run."

"Okay... what else can you figure out from that?" I challenge, not realizing what I am really getting into right now. This may go a little bit downhill for me.

He goes into something remarkably close to my life, "Now since he was the reason you left London in the first place, let's think for a moment. Most likely he had something to do with you having your 'mutual agreement' with Oxford and then he might have given you the idea to do something along the lines of Bonnie & Clyde. You like doing stupid and reckless things, so you, of course, jump at the chance."

I deny it, trying to laugh at it but my voice actually breaks a little, "It wasn't something out of Bonnie & Clyde." It was something out of Bonnie & Clyde, actually.

He ignores what I said and goes on, "He takes you away and you, are overcome with guilt. You do something that will cause you the least amount of guilt. Something called... sublimation, I suppose. You become a cop in the NYPD." I chew on the inside of my mouth once I feel my throat actually clog up, almost making me choke. I try to hold everything in and though I have the urge to try and stop him again, I know that once I open my mouth something that is completely out of my character would happen. I may break down right now. "The complete opposite of what you were. He wasn't happy about it, but you didn't really care. Becoming part of the police actually changed you, you weren't home all the time and when you became a detective it went downhill from there."

"Okay, you made your point. Can you stop—?"

He interrupts me and goes on like I'm no longer present. His eyes have suddenly a far off look to them, he seems almost distant right now. Like he isn't mentally with me. "You made your records flawless, made sure that it looked like you have been someone working in the law for years. Your fiancé began to cause fights with you." A memory flashes before my eyes as he says that, I distinctly remember a vase being thrown at me once. "Until he finally made the move, saw his opportunity to get rid of you. It was sudden, which explains why you're so unprepared and hesitant about situations here. You actually didn't commence the break-up, it was him... he didn't even break it off with you before it happened."

My mouth barely opens and I see him go out of his trance. I stare at him almost in shock, ignoring how my chest suddenly gets tight and how my eyes are beginning to water now. He looks at me puzzled, but expectantly. He figured all of that out, just from me telling him that my fiancé is the reason I left? "Congratulations," I say to him sarcastically before turning my head away from him. I tell myself to actually not cry, because if I cry I'll look weak right now, I'll mess up my make-up, the little make-up I wear anyway. If I don't look at him also, tears are less than likely to fall. My voice breaks, "for being a correct dick."

I do not see his reaction to what I said, nor do I really care for it. It goes back to being quiet between us, but I see the cab driver, with his scruffy looking face in the rear-view mirror. His dark eyes almost seem to look almost sympathetic. Once I feel a tear prick the corner of my eye, I mouth to the cab driver watching me, 'He's paying for the cab.' He nods his head as I turn my head back, leaning against the window. I think he gets the hint of what I want him to do for revenge. Or... I hope he does, if I were him, I would make Sherlock pay double.

I count the drops of rain that hit the window of the cab as we head to Jeremy Malloy's flat.

* * *

_So, did you like it? Hate it? Despised it? I think either two or three more chapters of this case and then we'll go into one that is part of the series, since it is following it. Hope you enjoyed the chapter and see you next time! ;)_


	6. Idiots & Friendships

_I'm sorry for the lateness of this update, I had a crazy week. Prom, graduation, and a party to go to, plus I had everything else to deal with. But here it is! And I won't bore you with a long author's note! _

* * *

**Chapter Five: Idiots & Friendship**

"_Its really amazing when two strangers become the best of friends, but it's really sad when the best of friends become two strangers." -Raphnie_

"Now, how do you suppose we get in?" I ask Sherlock, crossing my arms over my chest as we stand together under the landing. The rain hits the pavement as we both stare down the intercom. His lip twitches as he looks toward the door, locked with the only way to get in is for someone to buzz us in. There isn't anyone walking in or out of the building either that could hold the door for us.

Sherlock answers me after a short moment, "Simple." He searches the labels quickly before stopping at one before going to press the buzzer. He then looks over at me with a smirk on his face as his hand falls from the buzzer. "We ring for him." I look over at the name to see who he just rang, and I couldn't control my eyes from widening. The paper label clearly stated,_ Malloy_.

I stare over at him in disbelief, "You're kidding?"

"It's the only way to know he's in." Sherlock replies to me.

"And what if he answers? Did you ever think of that?" I ask him annoyed, what did he really drag me into? I want to go home... no, scratch that, I don't really have a home right now. But I want to be away from him and whatever the hell he thinks he's doing. This isn't supposed to happen like this. This morning, I was supposed to simply pick him up, bring him to St. Bart's, and go from there. Not go to a killer's—or the son of a killer's—flat to break in with him.

Sherlock looks at me like I have ten heads. I probably do. "We will improvise then."

"I am not taking part in this." I tell him, looking away from for a moment. "This is ridiculous."

"_Hello?_" A male's voice comes through the intercom. Immediately, I am frozen in my place and stare at the intercom with disbelief. Sherlock nudges my shoulder and gestures for me to actually talk back. I look up at him abruptly and mouth, 'What?' _"Hello?"_ Instead of answering my what, he brings me forward by grabbing both of my shoulders and pushing me toward it. "_Is anybody there?"_

"Y-Yes," I stammer out quickly, looking behind my shoulder I see Sherlock nonchalantly put his hands in the pockets of his coat and look up into the sky. When I turn back, I fake a smile in case there happens to be a camera watching me. You never know these things. "We are the couple that moved in the flat above yours."

"Hi." Sherlock says, pushing his face next to mine with a cheesy smile. His voice just went up half an octave. I try my hardest to control the eye roll threatening to happen.

The voice comes again, sounding almost uncertain, _"I'm sorry, I didn't know that someone just moved in."_

"Well, we are fairly new," I tell him quickly with my smile growing slightly. "Well, anyway, I locked our key in our flat. Could you perhaps do me the favour in buzzing us in?" I look over to Sherlock, gritting my teeth annoyed at him through my smile. But he doesn't pay mind to it. "I will really appreciate it." I add to him, not really taking my eyes off of Sherlock who is making it a point now in ignoring me.

There is a stammer on the other end, before we hear a, _"Yeah, yeah."_ Then with that, we hear the buzzer go off. My fake smile falls as does Sherlock's when he opens the door. He allows himself the privilege of going in first. I follow in his first steps, stepping into the lobby of the building. The lobby looks sort of comfortable actually, they are several couches in the middle with a coffee table in between them. Magazines are sprawled over the table, gossip magazines and housing magazines alike. One of the things sprawled on the table is the paper. Sherlock goes ahead to the couch, sitting down on the top of it like he belonged there.

I look around myself cautiously before I follow him. I plop down next to him, crossing my legs over one another. I take a gossip magazine off the table. He crosses his leg over one another and then lets out a loud, dramatic sigh before he puts a hand to his forehead. I glance over at him from my story about Jennifer Lopez and her boy-toy. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," he tells me shortly. I lock my jaw in place before I turn my head. At least we both know what this kid looks like instead of guessing. Several minutes pass between us and I begin to flip through the magazine, only paying attention to the headlines and the pictures rather than the actual story they portray. His feet are beginning to tap as if he is getting impatient. We have only been sitting here for at least five minutes and already he is acting like he's five. I hear another sigh come from next to me before I hear him say, "Can I see your mobile phone for a moment?" I raise my eyes from the headlineabout the speculated new Doctor for Doctor Who.

I ask him unsure, "My phone?"

"Yes, your phone."

"What's wrong with yours?" I inquire, taking it out against my better judgement. What in the bloody hell is he going to do with my phone? He doesn't answer me as I hand it over to him. He takes it out of my hand, doesn't even bother with asking me the password since I haven't changed it at all from the night before, and does whatever he needs to do with it. "How did you figure out my password?" I ask him curiously.

"You aren't very original, it's one, two, three, four." He tells me, his eyes being now glued onto the screen of my phone. I narrow my eyes at him. I look over slightly at what he is doing and see that he is texting someone using it. I raise my brow at this.

"Remind me later to change that password," I tell him, shaking my head. "Who are you texting with my phone?"

"Who do you think? I can't wait here for much longer." He says to me, finishing the message. Before I can even utter a word of protest, he tosses the phone over to me. "It won't be long now."

"You just texted him with my phone?" I ask him in disbelief. I look down at my phone questionably before looking back up at him. Is this a cruel joke? He just texted what might be a serial killer with my very own phone. "How did you even get his number?"

"Jeremy Malloy's number was listed on a dating website when I looked up him and his address_._" The funny thing is, I really don't remember him ever looking these things up while I've been with him.

Out of all the questions going through my mind, I choose this one because it is so unbelievably stupid for someone to do, "Who lists their number online on a dating website?" I haven't gone on a dating website... ever... so the idea seems a little strange to me.

"You would be surprised," Sherlock says in a monotone. "He should be calling you in three... two... one..." Right on point. The thriller ringtone begins to ring out almost on cue and I look down at the phone in my hand with a furrowed brow. The caller ID is 'unknown' so it may have not been him but it is a strong possibility. Sherlock's eyebrows perk slightly up as I quickly hit the ignore button so the call would go straight to my voice-mail. I look over at Sherlock who is looking at me with the 'I'm always right look' that you would give someone once proven right.

I roll my eyes at him and pull up the text on my phone that he sent. I read it out loud softly, "I know what you and your father did. Please meet me at The Wellington in ten minutes to discuss."

"If you were innocent and have gotten a text like that, you would have texted them back to say you have the wrong number," Sherlock explains to me with his eyes now glued on the lift in the building. "But someone who isn't innocent—."

"Would call back with a private number." I finish for him, locking my phone and putting it in my back pocket where it belongs. I tell him mockingly, "I don't believe I really asked for why you texted him, Sherlock. I figured that out when I read the text." I feel a glare penetrate the side of my head as I look back down into my gossip magazine. I don't care, he could glare at me for the words along the lines of what he said to me at his flat for however long he wants. He still hasn't apologized for the taxi ride over here and the awkward silence that followed afterwards. I got my slight revenge because of the cab driver making Sherlock pay double, but I'm still upset over it. I am, however, putting that aside for now because my feelings being wounded do not matter.

Though I am putting it aside, I think I am still allowed to not lighten up my attitude about it. "Do you want me to help you look out for him?" I ask him while turning the page of my magazine.

"That would be idiotic. We can't _both_ look." Sherlock tells me, his eyes flickering to me for a moment before going back to the lift.

"And why not?"

"It would be obvious that we had something to do with that text message." He tells me immediately before he picks up the newspaper on the table. When I glance over at him, he opens up to a random page somewhere in the middle of the paper. He keeps it on his lap idly as his eyes find themselves stuck on the lift once more. "He should be coming down soon enough."

"Well, don't stare too long or your eyes will fall out and it would be obvious that _you_ had something to do with that text message, which you did."

He doesn't bother glaring at me the second time. He is too preoccupied right now with catching the killer's assistant, if he is even that. "He's coming." Sherlock announces through his teeth as he moves the newspaper to cover his face, I look over at him briefly. I sink down into the couch and find myself doing the same with the magazine. My eyes accidentally follow Jeremy Malloy out the building. Though I didn't get the greatest look at him, I can tell that he is built with muscle and he has brown hair. From the picture I remember seeing at Sherlock's flat, he has blue eyes. But he walks so quickly that I can hardly even see them.

I drop the magazine on the top of my lap and stand up once he leaves. Sherlock folds the newspaper before he throws it back on the table before he stands up also. He completely ignores my presence as if he just assumes that I'll follow him as he goes toward the lift. I follow him and try to keep up with his pace.

* * *

He doesn't order me to do anything, after he picks the lock to Jeremy's flat, he goes off somewhere inside of it. I sit down at the kid's laptop by the door, briefly looking over at it to see that he hasn't even logged off of it. The flat is a decent size, not too big and not too small. The walls are plain looking and they lack any sort of pictures, not even pictures in frames of his friends or sister, or maybe even girlfriend, are around the flat. His rug is stained with coffee and other spills, and it is the same beige carpet throughout. He has the classic male commodities. Like the big telly to watch his football and rugby and the cans of beer that are empty and stacked in a pyramid.

He must have been bored one day when he should have been recycling those beer cans. I wonder if he also has... oh, he does. I open up the desk drawer to see three condoms sitting there on top of papers and notebooks. That's funny how they aren't even in his bedroom and that they are in here instead. I pick them up and turn them over to see that all three of them are three months expired. Three months of him probably not getting laid. You can tell a lot about a man just by looking through his drawers, just like you can tell a lot about a woman just by looking through he purse.

I barely carry a purse for that reason, but when I do, all I have in there is money, my phone, a pencil, and a book that I am reading at the time if the people around me bore me. It still might not reveal much about me.

This man is the classic stereotype of a man. Beer addict, sports lover, messy, and idiotic—for having expired protection and leaving his computer actually open. Speaking of his computer. I swivel in the computer chair to face it and roll my neck before flexing my fingers, hearing some of my bones actually crack—and actually cringing from the sound of my bones cracking. "What do you deduce about this man, Sherlock? You're surprisingly quiet."

I haven't heard a word from him once he went in here, like he is so absorbed into what he is doing. Before I pull up Jeremy's history on his laptop, I wait a moment to hear something come from Sherlock's mouth. Nothing. But what I do hear is a bunch of papers and several objects falling down on the ground somewhere. "You better be cleaning up after yourself in that bedroom, young man!" I call from the laptop before turning to it.

"He's the one that did the code," he tells me, almost shouting it to me. I pull up his internet to see his Facebook page right there in front of me. Idiot, I don't have to hack into any of his things. "He has a list of keywords to do it in his underwear drawer."

"Why are you looking in there?" I ask him loudly, going to his profile page to see his pictures. In one of the pictures, he is carrying a fish upside down, having water drip from it on the top of the docks. I shake my head at that before I go into his messages. I find that they are also useless.

"It was already opened."

"Likely story, I wouldn't be surprised if you take a look into Dr. Watson's underwear drawer once in a while." I find myself smirking at that, it is kind of strange for two older men (well, not older, Sherlock has to be around, what, thirty or thirty-one? And John must be around thirty-three or four) to share a flat with each other. I mean, any person on the street would think that they are gay. But if you pay attention to details and simply observe, they aren't. Or I just don't think that they are, but I can poke fun at it, can't I? He ignores my comment.

I open a few messages to double check, but nothing mentions the murders or is relevant to them. I decide to go through his history to see what is there and, "He's using a cheat sheet website thing where he must have found the most complicated code to find. I used to go on this site." When I had nothing to do in New York, I used to randomly code things and put them around our flat for me to find three months later. It gave me something to do only when I got bored, they also kept me late when I had to stay up. Paul threw them out whenever he found one.

"Oh, so you were never good at codes, you cheated using the internet." Sherlock says to me, I hear his leather shoes coming toward me from the bedroom. I try not to shoot a clever retort back at him, so I just continued going through his history. Sherlock come up next to me, "What happened to legal backup?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're looking through his computer."

"It was opened," I reply to him quickly, glancing over at him briefly. "He didn't log off of anything so I didn't really have to break into anything."

"Do you have the code with you?" Sherlock asks me after looking at me carefully. I type away on the laptop to find his other history to see that he has looked at his email recently. I decide to go into his account and not really answer the question. The reflection of the computer screen shows that he is locking his jaw annoyed, it looks like. "Did you bring the code with you, Meredith?"

"Can't you see that I am busy right now?" I tell him, going through Jeremy's email. He didn't log off of that either. That is not fun for me at all. I go into an interesting one that is from yesterday. "And no I didn't—why is your website a link in this email?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your website is a link in one of the emails from a lmancaster." I look over at him with my eyebrow raised. Sherlock furrows his brow at the screen reads over the email that I found. I turn my head to read it out loud, "'Dear Jeremy, I think the police are going to go to someone outside of Scotland Yard to find us. Here's the man they use: _ .uk._'"

I look over at Sherlock to find him actually smirking about this. "He knows that I'm looking for him."

"And that's a thing to actually be smirking about?"

"Serial killers are always tricky, and I think this one is about to do some tricks." Sherlock mutters to me before he takes the mouse from me to click on the link, when it goes to his website. "The game is on!" He nearly shouts before jumping up in the air. I turn my head to see him actually walk to his coffee table. Game? He shuffles through the pictures on top of the coffee table. "Can you find out who lmancaster is from there?"

"Piece of cake, but what are you doing?"

"I'm looking for any pictures, any kind."

"What did you mean by game?" I ask him curiously before turning toward the computer. Hopefully I can trace whoever sent the email by going to the website, typing in the username and taking a wild guess at the password. My fingers typing are the loudest thing in the flat, actually close to being the loudest next to Sherlock. "Sherlock." I start to him when I don't hear an answer from him.

"This is finally going to get interesting," Sherlock says to me. "And Jeremy is not going to make it interesting. He's merely a pawn."

"You're still not answering my question." I get through the email more easily than I thought I would. I repeat to him, "What did you mean by _game_?" _Shit, _this is not as easy as I thought. I had the feeling that this isn't as easy as I thought it would be. Mancaster has things on lockdown. Now it's fun. Let me go through the amount of security that he has set up for me.

"Stop talking, I'm trying to think."

"How about you answer my question and then I stop talking?" I suggest to him.

"How about, no." He replies to me going off somewhere else with several papers in his hand. I glance behind my shoulder to see him head back to the kid's room.

"I'm not really in the mood then to really cooperate with _you_, Sherlock. You're on my bad list."

"I can tell." He says to me. "Did I say something to offend you?" He sounds like he really has not a clue. Either that, or he's mocking me. No idea. I do not answer him, I do not look his way, I continue to what I want to do. My eyes briefly glances down at my finger, left hand, the tan line of my engagement ring stands out more than ever now. Maybe because I am thinking about it. I expect him to just drop the conversation and continue on with work, but like I said Mr. Sherlock Holmes likes to hear the sound of his own voice. "If this is about what happened in the cab—."

"Of course it is about the cab ride over here!" I nearly shout at him. "I called you a dick for a reason in there."

"I didn't picture you as the type to let your emotions get in the way of your work."

"I'm sorry for being human and not a machine, Holmes. But I think anyone would be offended." I snap at him, looking behind my shoulder for a split moment. My eyesight isn't too good, but I see his head briefly lift up at the sound of that. That was a little harsh. I actually lower my head at that sound of that before I turn to face the computer screen again. Though, I don't continue on. I stare at the screen blankly, gulp to myself, and pick up my hands to go at it after a long moment. Silence now, between me and him. Silence is now, but I kind of do wish he would apologize now.

I hear next to me before I go back to my hack job, "My apologies for offending you... in the cab." I stop in place and slowly turn toward that deep baritone voice. Sherlock is looking down at me, with sincerity in his blue-green eyes actually, and it takes me by surprise. I hold his gaze down at me for a little while, my stomach actually churns, but not so much in a repulsed way, more like in a nervous way. It must have been five minutes at most before he came right now. When I don't answer him right away, he adds, "I don't apologize often for my actions, Wilder."

No matter how much I would like to just say no I do not accept the apology, I find myself leaning toward accepting it.

I scratch my cheek and quickly look away from those stunning eyes (yes, I did say stunning, but if you looked at those eyes for however long I did, I think you would find them stunning, too). "I'll build a bridge and get over it. Got my revenge on you anyway." I smirk at that, but don't really look up at him. I turn back to the screen and find myself at a dead end. I am getting rusty with my hacking.

"How's that?" He asks me curiously, from the corner of my eye I see him cock his head to the side. I don't answer him, I hear him sigh a second later. "You told the cab driver to double the amount I had to pay."

"Oh, yeah." I chuckle lightly before I try again to get this man's information. Sherlock doesn't say anything, he probably doesn't even care about my clever way at getting back at him. I thought it is clever, anyway, I wasn't even sure that it would actually work in my favour. "I didn't really tell him, he just assumed that was what I wanted."

"So, you weren't sure that you were going to get said revenge."

"Clever, isn't it?" I ask him with my smirk growing. Sherlock doesn't comment on how clever it was of me, I think he just wants me to believe that when he really knows that it isn't original. "How long before he comes back?" It just occurred to me that we've been here already for ten minutes. I turn my head to see Sherlock glance down at his watch before heaving a sigh.

"We aren't too far away but in the text I did say in ten minutes meet me. He would wait five minutes in case and it would take him less than five minutes afterwards to realize that something is going on. He would take a quick way home, so the cab ride is five minutes. It takes a minute by elevator to get up here. So it would be around I'd say fourteen minutes before he would come."

"Okay, so when do we plan on leaving here?"

"Fourteen minutes."

I can't control the huff that comes out of my mouth before I tilt my head and go back to my work. "Lovely then."

* * *

"I couldn't get anything on lmancaster, but Jeremy Malloy is involved." I finally get to St. Bart's after texting Lestrade to meet me there. Sherlock and John, who we both recovered after he was done with work, are walking behind Lestrade and I. I dragged Sherlock here since it would set my mind at ease. Even if it isn't necessary, it is necessary for my sanity. "He could lead us to our killer, so we have to find him."

"Let me get this straight," Lestrade starts to me, closing his eyes for a moment. I did mention some things that I probably shouldn't have to him, "you and him broke into her brother's apartment, stole evidence that could be used against him, tried to hack into his computer—."

"In my defence, he was still logged in." I cut him off and then receive a glare from him as we stop in the middle of the hallway. "Sorry."

"You also tried to break into someone's email, all of which doesn't excuse that what you did was _illegal_." Lestrade says to me sternly. I bite the insides of my mouth and lean back until I hit the wall. Lestrade looks between Sherlock and I before he goes to say, "We'll keep it our secret, just as long as you don't do it again."

"What?" I ask him, raising my eyebrow up at him. He just said what I thought I said. He looks at me carefully before I just nod my head quickly. "I'll just shut up about the whole thing."

"Good, all right then, tell me all that you can about Jeremy Malloy."

"Can we do this over lunch because I'm starved?" I ask him curiously with a small smile, Sherlock rolls his eyes at me before looking over at John. "Of course, Sherlock and Dr. Watson are invited to come to lunch—late lunch with us."

"You can call me John," John says to me with that same smile he gave me yesterday. Nice man. "And I think we would—."

"Pass on it." Sherlock finishes for him, a small and fake smile is on his face as he looks over at me. John looks over at him abruptly, clearly that isn't the answer that John was going to say before. "I don't eat while I work. Digestion slows me down." He explains to me. I stare at him with incredulity, almost not believing that is true at all. But I look him up and down and see how lean he is. He does look healthy, but he must skip meals here and there. How can someone even _think_ to do that? That just seems strange to me. But I never really skip out on meals, if I do I get cranky.

"You can join us though and _not _eat." I insist to him. I just spent all morning and afternoon with this man, the least he can do is sit with us while we talk about what _we_ just found out.

"I'm afraid not."

"Sherlock, I think we should at least sit down with them and discuss the case." John tells him, I nod a thank you over to him. They sometimes sound like a married couple. I think that's cute. Sherlock turns to John and glares at him, but John doesn't seem to back down. He seems rather firm with this.

"Waste of my time," Sherlock says to me, turning his head back to us. I look over at Lestrade who just shrugs his shoulders at me. "Besides, Meredith is more than capable to tell you about Malloy. I, on the other hand, have better things to do right now."

"Really? Like what?" I ask him with my eyebrow raised.

He looks directly at me, but doesn't say a word for a moment. I narrow my eyes at him and unconsciously lick the bottom of my lip. "If you need me, I'll be upstairs." Upstairs? In the classrooms? He turns his head toward Lestrade, giving him a small nod before turning to John and looking at him carefully. "Are you coming?"

"I'll meet you there." John says to him, "I'm going to grab a bite to eat, since you pulled me out of work when it was about to be my lunch hour."

"Sherlock told me that you were done with work by then." I say to him quickly, both of my eyebrows perked.

"He may have confused my lunch break with the actual time I get off." John says, turning his head. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the two of us before he just takes out his phone. With his phone in hand, he turns on his heel without saying any word and goes forth to one of the classrooms. It makes me wonder what he is going to do up there. "So, shall we?" John looks at the two of us with his eyebrows perking.

"We shall," I say to him, letting him go ahead of me. My eyes follow Sherlock's retreating body as the two men go ahead of me. Then I slowly turn my head to follow John and Lestrade to wherever they are going so we can eat. Although, while I follow them, I feel a pair of eyes on my for a moment before I glance behind my shoulder to see who they belonged to. To my surprise, there's no one there any more.

* * *

"He is single and all of the stereotypes of a man combined." I tell both Lestrade and John once we sit down in the cafeteria. I chose to eat the chicken they have in here, which didn't look too bad when I first laid eyes on it. But the light on it now makes it look like a sloppy mess rather than appetizing. "We also found this in his flat," I take out the code I lied to Sherlock before about not having it. Lestrade moves it toward him to look at it. "It's a code, that could lead us to the killer. It probably would be on the next victim." I lie to him, it was on the one from yesterday. I decided on not blaming it on Anderson like I told Sherlock last night.

"It looks cryptic," John comments, looking over at it. I cut into my chicken, nodding my head slowly.

"Do you know—?" Lestrade starts to me, but I cut him off.

"It's a four-square cipher, not very common and it's extremely tedious to do."

"So, if you know what is, why didn't you try to solve it?" John asks me with his eyebrow raised. "Does Sherlock know what kind of code this is?"

"We both know what it is, but it's nearly impossible to do so now. Although it would be incredibly simple if we were to find the keywords." I explain to them both. "You need them in order to solve it. So either we are going to get it when the time is right, or we are going to just have to guess at it from the list of keywords we already have."

With that said, I actually take a bit out of the chicken. We all fall silent, knowing that really is all that I have said about the subject of Jeremy since I said it all on the way down. "You said he was getting emails from an lmancaster before?" Lestrade asks me curiously before I slowly nod my head at him. "Any idea on who that is?"

I shake my head no, "I tried to hack into his email before but it was registered under a Jacob Hobbs, who is dead. So, yeah, quite impossible for a dead man to actually send emails and kill people. I've printed them all out on his computer, but I've given them to Sherlock. One of those emails were about him. He gave Jeremy a link to his website and said that this man is going to be used on the case."

"Oh, fucking brilliant," Lestrade mutters with a frown edging his features. He throws his head slightly back exasperated and continues to eat the pasta in front of him.

I shrug my shoulders, "Sherlock seemed excited about that when we found it."

"Of course he was," Lestrade says to me with his mouth actually full of pasta. "I told you yesterday, he gets off on this stuff." He really did before too. I don't think I have seen anyone grow so excited when they see themselves suddenly involved in a case.

We all fall silent after that, quietly eating our food together. Lestrade is nearly finished with his pasta while John and I are not so done. If a woman were to walk past my plate of food, they would think that I'm secretly a man—it's that full (I didn't eat breakfast this morning, that's why). Lestrade looks behind his shoulder for a moment, glancing over at a woman who is just about finished with her food. "I'm going to talk to Hooper, see if she could pull out those bodies again so you can have a look at them." He tells me. I don't know who Hooper is, but I'm assuming that she may work in the morgue.

I nod my head at him slowly and with that, he gets up from the table and then heads over to the woman's direction. John looks over at me, "So, any luck with a flat?" He asks me curiously.

His voice almost surprises me so I just look over at at him and shake my head no, "I haven't been looking to be honest. But I've talked to your landlady this morning, she offered me the flat below yours."

"Oh?" He actually sounds like he didn't have anything to do with that at all.

"Don't 'oh' me like you're surprised," I say to him with a grin, "I know you told her about me."

John chuckles lightly and nods his head at me, "I may have mentioned a word or two. So what did you say about that?"

"Well, it's a basement flat. And I'm not really interested in one of those. They tend to be damp," I tell him while eating still, "plus I don't think that I would be able to stand leaving in the flat below Sherlock's. But I told Mrs. Hudson that I will come by one day and check it out, just to keep my options."

"I never looked at that flat to be honest, but it's good for you to keep your options open." John insures me, offering a smile before he takes a bite out of his food. "What about a job? Are you going to get that job at a department store that you were thinking about taking?"

"Hmm, I don't know," I tell him with a smirk, "I think I may give this a go. A shop could be so dull if you really put some thought into it. How was your date?" He looks up at me rather abruptly, the smile comes off of his face and he seems astonished that I have known about it. I laugh at him, "Sherlock told me that last night."

"Oh, yeah... he was with you last night?" John inquires to me with a confused smile.

I nod my head, "Your flatmate was in my hotel room last night waiting for me to get back from the pub."

"Why was he—I actually don't want to know," John says to me with his confused smile flickering. "But, it didn't really go too well like I thought."

"Well, there are plenty of fishes in the sea." I reply easily to him, surprisingly really easily to him. "When do you have to go back to work?"

"I'm not," John tells me, "the job isn't working out for me. I have gotten enough money to keep me over for a couple of weeks and I am going to work somewhere else... when I find a new job, of course/"

"Ahh, okay, well it should be easy for you to get a job, you're probably an over-qualified doctor. And everyone needs one of those."

"Ha, that's true." John says. "Listen, if you're not busy sometime, we should go out and... I don't know, grab a cup of coffee together."

The suggestion comes so suddenly that I'm almost surprised by it. I stare at him for a moment, before looking down at my food. My ends of my fork is pricking away at the skin of my chicken while it dangles from my hand. "John," I start to him after a short minute, looking back up, "I don't really know how to say this, but I... just got out of a really committed relationship and it had a rough ending. I am not ready to really date."

"Oh!" John's eyes widen at the interpretation of his statement that I have picked up from before. "No, no, I didn't mean it like that." He says to me in a rush, "Not at all. Y-You are a very attractive woman, but I understand completely. I didn't mean that as a date, I meant it as for us to get to know each other better. So we could be friends, you know?"

"Oh... wow," a feel an embarrassed flush come over my cheeks, "I feel like an idiot." In my defence, it sounded like he was asking me out on a date. I don't know, maybe because I haven't really been in the dating new people game for so long. The whole idea is extremely foreign to me. "I'm so sorry."

"No, don't be sorry," John says to me immediately, "I should have clarified it for you."

"I don't really think I should have needed clarification, John." I tell him, now that I think about it, what he said doesn't really sound like a date. My head just jumped straight to that conclusion. "But I think I would very much like that. I don't have many friends in London as of now."

John looks at me questionably, "And why's that? You have been gone for three years, right? You haven't kept in touch with any of your old friends?"

I shrug my shoulders and think of a somewhat honest lie, "They all weren't too proud of me for leaving them for a boy and when you go far it's hard to stay in contact with them."

"Yeah, it could be difficult," John agrees with me, "but maybe now that you're back you can get back in contact," he takes a bite out of his food, "catch up with them. No harm can be done from that."

"Yeah, none," I nod, if only I can go back to my old friends as Meredith. It would be fun. My friends and I always had fun together, we would go out. Sometimes the nights together would be forgotten the next morning, but other times my whole entire face would hurt from the laughter we had. "We'll see though if they would give me the time of day. Let me give you my number if you want to have our coffee... friend, hang-out session." That's what I came up with after I found myself about to say _date_, which we both don't want it to be. He nods his head to me, going to his pocket to give me his phone.

I feel the scratches as my hand skims the place where you plug in the charger. The phone looks a little new, but not too new, he may have had it for a few months. There's also an inscription on the phone that I feel and as I put myself as a new contact, I try to trace the letters. I got _Clara_ out of it and there's an _H_ somewhere behind there. When I punch in my number, I lock his phone and give it back to him. Briefly turning it over to see the inscription, _'To Harry, Love Clara.'_ A brother gave him his phone that was given to him by his wife or girlfriend? The couple either isn't together any more, or it's an old phone. Not an old phone, so they either broke up or divorced.

"Wilder!" I hear Lestrade call me. I turn my head slowly to see him and this small woman next to him. He gestures for me to come over to him. "We're going to take a look at the bodies again."

I take a deep sigh and nod my head slowly at him, but I haven't even finished my food. I glance back at my not finished food, realizing that I did eat most of my chicken. "We'll continue this, Watson." I say to him with a smirk. He is about done too and looks like he might just go up and meet Sherlock in a classroom. I put my tray on top of Lestrade's before standing up slowly taking them both in my hands so I can just throw them both out.

"Yes we will, see you around, Mere." Mere? I didn't give him permission to call me that. He stands up with me and I find that I don't even have the heart to tell him not to call me that. Only Carter calls me that. I mutter a 'see ya' before going toward the garbage.

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_I had to stop here because it was going to go longer. I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter and hopefully I can update again soon, but I'm starting to go back to work so I have no idea! If you have any thoughts, criticism, concerns, don't hesitate to leave a review :). Have a nice day!_


	7. Ignorance & Warnings

_**No reviews last chapter? That makes me sad :(. But that didn't stop me from updating and being inspired, reviews are never required for one :). Anyway, here's chapter six, I hope you enjoy it. I stopped writing the story along with the case I started it with... you'll see what I did, but I thought the story was going slow because of it. Hope you enjoy the new chapter and thank you to those who favourited and alerted the story :) Oh, also, I'm going to stop with the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. It's hard looking for quotes for each one!**_

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**Chapter Six: Ignorance & Warnings**

_Two weeks later_

The case came to a close on a Wednesday afternoon. Sherlock eventually figured it out after receiving a care package delicately wrapped with a bow that he only allowed I and John to look at came on his doorstep. There was no murders committed by our lovely serial killer, but he gave up when we were just beginning to close. There was no actual father of 'Beth,' we fell for the red-herring so easily that it was almost sickening. Sherlock had his doubts after we both searched Jeremy's flat, but we didn't figure it out until I got the IP address of where lmancaster registered his email. The IP address was Jeremy's.

The list of keywords were real and in pairs. I had a night in Baker Street, an exhausting night that I would rather not talk about because I had the slightest temptation to strangle Holmes, and Sherlock and I used each pair of keywords to decode with. We finally settled on _Heaven _and _Earth_, since they actually made the most sense and it was the only one that composed an address, _Thirty-One Montague Street._

We found two other girls there, in a basement, locked up in cages but otherwise well-fed and bathed. The cage thing was unnerving for me and I almost felt sick looking at them. Though the serial killer took care of them like a father would a daughter, they were touched. But not so much touched that it would take their virginity. One of the girls wasn't as drugged as the other and she gave us an almost clear description of the murderer and her captor.

It matched the description of Jeremy.

So, long story short, Jeremy Malloy was our murderer. All along. The fact that he had us running around looking for this was maddening. Sherlock was quite impressed with Jeremy, which was scary, but even I have to admit, the kid had us all going. He was bloody brilliant—actually, still is—through and through.

So, what became of me through all this? Well, I was stated as a Detective in Scotland Yard a few days after I have searched through Malloy's flat. This was only so I could interview him with Lestrade (I even interviewed this bloke and had not a bloody idea that he was the man I've been looking for) since I already had a lot of insight in the case, more so than Lestrade actually. And, I got paid a good salary like the other detectives. So, say hello to the newest detective of Scotland Yard, Detective Meredith Wilder. Mrs. Hudson was right, now that I'm saying it in my head, it sounds like it belongs in a film. I think I may introduce myself in a James Bond sort of way. 'The name's Wilder, Meredith Wilder.'

Uh, so what else to tell my imaginary audience within my head who are probably thinking that I am insane?

Oh, yes, I am only a detective, below Lestrade and Sally. Sally actually is my superior before Lestrade. As a lower grade detective, my salary is lower significantly, but higher than the officers in the Yard. I am only working with Lestrade, but if any other DI wants me to help him with a case Lestrade isn't assigned to, I'm allowed to help them.

But for right now, on the Thursday morning after the case, I am with Lestrade at the station. My eyes peer around to see the press gathering in a room.

I nearly find myself cringe at the sight of it. "You'll do fine." Lestrade says noticing my coming anxiety. I look over at him and take a deep breath before glancing outside again. I don't like talking in front of people but I know sometimes I'm required to. In New York, Garret has had me talk at conferences and I wanted to kill him afterwards too. My chest begins to tighten and I see a camera being directed at the long table that is supposed to seat Lestrade, Donovan, and I. There are also some journalists with cameras to take pictures of me with, great. So my face may be plastered all over _The Sun_. Fucking brilliant.

It is what every fugitive dreams of, at least my appearance has changed, enough for me to not be recognized anyway. "I hope I do fine. Is this really necessary for me to do?" I ask Lestrade, maybe there is a slightest chance I can get out of this. I can tell just by looking into his eyes that it's not possible. I sigh grudgingly before saying, "Fine then, let's just get this over with." Lestrade nods to me before allowing me to go first.

Almost immediately the cameras go off, flashing their pictures at me as I walk to the seat nearest the exit. Lestrade walks past me and ignores the cameras like he is used to it. Sally follows us and sits at his other side. When I feel my bum hit the seat, my eyes avoid everyone else's, especially that video camera that is shooting all three of us sitting together. I furrow them to my hands fiddling with each other underneath the table. The press' chatter dies down as Sally gives her address.

I barely listen, catching bits and pieces of her quickly explaining the conclusion of our case. Her words are meaningless, because when I glance up at the press to see if anyone is writing anything down, none of them are. They are most likely waiting for Lestrade and I to talk. Bloody brilliant.

Sally's address is long and dull. Though we are sort of friends now, I want to pull my hair out because of the boredom that's consuming my every being... I might be being dramatic, but it's almost to that point. I only start to pay attention when I hear her say, "Our new detective, Detective Wilder and Detective Inspector Lestrade are now ready to take questions concerning the previous case."

I look up from my hands and try to look attentive as the cameras now are focused on Lestrade and I. Sally is no longer a part of our picture. I gulp to myself as I see several hands rise up and look to Lestrade, let him start it off for me. He gives me an unnoticeable nod as if he can feel my anxiety just rising before picking a hand. The hand belongs to a large man with glasses over his light eyes and light coloured beard. He has a beard but lacks hair on the top of his head. It's a horrible look for him.

"Was there going to be more victims of the serial killer before you have caught him?" What a weak question. I'd have fired him.

Lestrade answers while I remain silent, "There were two more women in the basement that would have been his next victims." Like me, Lestrade doesn't sound like he's a fan of these press conferences either. "If we haven't figured out where he had them hidden in time, they could have been murdered."

A woman immediately raises her hand after that. She looks like she belonged with these pack of vultures. Perfectly manicured hands, a bright coloured dress, and bright lipstick brings the attention needed for her question. Lestrade takes her next. "If he had other victims, why do you think he didn't murder them like the others?"

I quickly glance over at Lestrade for permission to answer. I have a rude answer already lined up because who asks a question like that? Be thankful that he didn't! Lestrade gives me the nod before I lean into the microphone. "Though I think your question is stupid, I will answer it for you." The woman almost seems appalled that I've called her question stupid but I continue on, "Because of us being onto him and he knew his every move was being watched, the killer was cooperating with us. It would have been too much of a risk to be committing murders when he was right under our noses. We are thankful though that he didn't take the risk and that those young women are safely with their families."

I didn't notice as I was talking Lestrade's glare when I called her question stupid. It was though. I don't even look over at him, I think that's why I don't like doing these. I'm incredibly rude with my answers.

"What would you say his motive was behind his murders?" Another one asks without even waiting for Lestrade to choose him. He looks directly at me too so I think it is mine to answer.

"The motive isn't very clear to us as of right now. But we are thinking that he may have just been doing this for the pleasure of killing or avenging his younger sister." I answer him accordingly. I think that answer was more polite.

Lestrade takes another question from them, I'm beginning to count the minutes until the end of this. The next question is from a woman with a tight blonde bun. "What would you say brought you to Jeremy Malloy to be the killer?"

"Mr. Malloy had evidence we found in his flat and was giving us cryptic messages that led to him." Lestrade begins to her. The question seems reasonable enough to answer. "Some of these messages were meant to throw us off his path, like making it look like a father was doing to avenge a daughter's death. But from the valid evidence that Detective Wilder and I have gathered and a clear description from one of the women he kept, we were able to bring him into custody."

The woman with the tight bun has another question so Lestrade has her ask us, "Since there wasn't a clear link said before between the murders, what would you say would be the exact link between them?"

"Detective Wilder, do you think you would answer this question?" Lestrade enquires to me.

I nod before going to the microphone. I am the one who, sort of figured it out. The man who actually did is not here with us. I tell the press, "The link between them all wasn't clear because he wanted to throw us off like Lestrade has said. The similarities between the victims were small and hardly noticeable to a careless eye. The similarities, except for three, weren't shared with all the victims. The one that all of them shared was where they have gone to school, their age, and that they were all virgins, which he drugged each of them to check."

My answer causes everyone in the room to discuss amongst themselves, after my answer my jaw locks and my eyes furrow to the door that opened. My eyes nearly widen when I see John Watson and Sherlock Holmes walk into my press conference. John smiles at me and gives me an encouraging wave, I actually told him about this conference the night before. Sherlock avoids my eye contact completely and looks almost sullen. Did John actually drag him to my press conference? It seems like it, Sherlock has a frown on his face, he is avoiding contact with almost every person in the room, and his eyes are focusing on the exit sign that is above his head. I don't blame him, I'd kill someone to leave.

"Any more?" Lestrade asks the press.

I hear Sherlock's dramatic and bored sigh from across the room but I don't think any one seems to notice. Another with a question, "Is this your first case working with Scotland Yard, Detective?" Oh, for once this is addressed to me specifically. I look at the young woman carefully, she has to be twenty-six at the very least, my actual age. She has her brown hair let down on her shoulders and she has that pen ready to write.

I lean toward the microphone, "This is the first case I have worked with Scotland Yard as a Detective, so yes."

"But this isn't the first case you have worked as a Detective, is it?" She asks me again.

I tilt my head at her before I say in the microphone, "I was a NYPD detective for three years before coming back to London, so no it is not."

"Have you seen worse cases than this one in New York?"

What does this have anything to do with the case? The lot of the press are vultures. I tell her, "I have, but I don't think that your questions have anything to do with the conclusion of the case. If this was a press conference about myself, I would not be here. So, if you please have any other questions concerning the case and not me, then go on. If you don't, then please leave." I didn't mean to nearly snap at her, but I thought it was called for. Lestrade sends me another look of disapproval, but I really don't care at this point. I'll deal with it later.

"If there is no one with any more questions about the case then we are done." Lestrade says to them, finally. The press conference had to be—what? Ten minutes or more already.

"Yes, because we have massive amounts of paperwork to get to right now." I add to them jokingly, actually cracking a fake smile. Some of them laugh at my humour, but some, like the two women I may have insulted, did not. Lestrade and Donovan look around the press, seeing that there is no one with a question. "So, then we are finished. Thank you for your time." With that, we all get up. I fix my skirt and turn on my heels to walk out into Scotland, of course, the press decide to take a picture of my annoyed face when I turn to leave.

When the presence of the station comes to my view, I am relieved and I head to my desk. Lestrade joins my side, "We have to work on your conference skills."

"Why? I thought that went well." I tell him almost sarcastically, it could have gone better. But what was I supposed to do? Be fake? _Yes,_ the voice in my head answers. Lestrade doesn't say anything, he gives me almost a reprimanding glare that a father gives a daughter and I find myself nodding my head to him. "I'll try to."

"That's what I like to hear," he flashes me a smile before he pats me on the shoulder. "Now get started on that _massive_ amounts of paperwork."

"I have to unload my desk onto my... desk and then I'll start it."

"Okay, well it'll be in my office waiting for you." Wait, does that mean I'm doing all of it by myself? I turn my head, stopping in my tracks before I go to ask him, but he's already disappeared. It was almost like a magic trick. Well, it happened just as fast as one. I sigh before I go to my desk where there is a big cardboard box on the top of it that I brought this morning. My goal was to unload it before I have gone, but they had different plans. They even made me up for the press conference.

I take a deep breath through the nose before I stop in front of my empty desk, which only has a dated computer on the top of it. The contents in my box are all of what have been on top of my desk in New York. From picture frames, bobble-heads, souvenirs, everything. I never really got to looking through it, so I guess I will do that now. I take out one of my bobble-heads, Count Dracula, and place him delicately next to my computer. Then I have my Frankenstein and Mummy bobble-heads and place them promptly next to each other.

I even have my own plaque from New York. I take out the gold name plate slowly, fixing it in front of my desk for passers to read my name. "That was an interesting press conference." I hear someone say. I turn my head to see John standing behind me with Sherlock standing behind him, clearly he still doesn't want to be here.

"Well, you only caught the end of it." I tell him, smirking. "I called a woman stupid for asking why the murderer didn't kill the other two women." John laughs at that, before shaking his head at me in disapproval. Why does everyone disapproves of me telling them off in little ways? "They both deserved it. The press is a pack of vultures as far as I'm concerned. What are you guys doing here?"

"We're here to show some support," John says to me, he glances at Sherlock who grunts at that. This is the most quiet Sherlock has been in my presence before. John looks back at me before stating, "You were so nervous about it yesterday that I thought it would be good. But you seem to have handled your own out there. And I would like to congratulate on your new job."

"Yes, a job you acquired a week and a half ago." Sherlock adds coldly, his arms crossed over his chest and he has a sullen look that belongs to a child. Much like the look he had in the room before. John scolds him with a look as Sherlock turns his head toward him. Clearly not noticing it. I grin amused. "Can we go now?"

"Why did _you_ come, Sherlock?" I ask him curiously, leaning my back against my desk. "You don't seem to want to be here."

"I _don't_," Sherlock says to me. "I was dragged here."

"You were dragged here?"

"Well, does it look like I actually want to be in a place with too much stupidity in the room?"

"Well, you don't really seem the type to actually be dragged somewhere, Sherlock." I tell him with my grin growing wider, "I think you were just bored and needed something to do. I think you just happened to use John dragging you here in order to do something." John smirks in my general direction at what I said, it's probably true. I wouldn't doubt it. Sherlock rolls his eyes at me before I ask him, "Is what I said to you not true then?"

"Believe it or not, I have better things to do than be here."

"If you count microwaving eyeballs or analysing different types of perfume, then Sherlock, I fully understand where you are coming from." I tell him sarcastically.

"Those are ongoing experiments, how do you know about them?"

"Your very informative website." I actually did look it up in an internet café the night before out of curiosity. Before I only looked at one of his messages and the front page, but the rest of his site I didn't see. I also read the case of the serial suicides that was on John's blog. As for which one I like more... John beats his site single-handedly.

"Wait, you actually read his site?" John asks me sounding surprised.

I nod my head to him, "Of course, but of course I'm not an avid fan of it like one he seems to have." I look over at Sherlock and he inclines his head as if he's actually interested that I know of the hidden message. "How long did it take you to decipher that message you received, Sherlock?" Sue me for being curious but I have been waiting to ask him this question for a long time.

"Less than five minutes to figure out the type of code and what it said."

"Same." I tell him almost immediately, he doesn't bother to look really impressed by this and neither am I. I think we both expected it out of each other. John's smile actually falls and he looks between us. I narrow my eyes at Sherlock with a smirk actually growing, Sherlock's face never changes. I almost forgot about John being here until he clears his throat awkwardly. Both Sherlock and I turn our heads at him simultaneously.

John says, "We have to get going, I'm sure you have a lot to do." John actually looks uncomfortable standing between us, why does he look uncomfortable? I chuckle lightly at him.

"Unfortunately, I do. I'll see you around." I tell him before going back to my box. John nods to me before looking at Sherlock. John walks around my desk while Sherlock follows him. I catch him from the corner of my fixing his navy blue scarf as he walks away. I pick up my head, allowing my smirk to stay as I say, "Until next time, Holmes." He's not getting rid of me for a very long time. Sherlock acknowledges me, turning his head. I bring up my hand to wave at him with twinkling fingers and a wink. Sherlock's face once again doesn't change until he turns his head. I think for a moment, I have just seen the beginnings of a smile form on his face.

I've cracked him—I think. The smile could have been a part of my imagination.

My smirk disappears though when I look in my box to see the only two photo frames that I have with the only two pictures that I own. I frown at the top one and take it out of my box for a moment. I wish I have threw this one out. I bite my bottom lip, putting the picture of Paul and I back into the box where it belongs. I don't even want to look at it. I take out the other picture in its frame to see that it's Carter and I. I smile at it softly before I put it by my name plate, facing toward me. It's of us at the NYPD benefit a year ago. Paul didn't want to come so I had Carter escort me there.

We danced and the picture is merely proof of that. In it, I am kissing Carter on the cheek while he makes a face like he is some sort of goof. His nose is scrunched up and his eyes are nearly closed. It describes our friendship perfectly. "Who's that there?" I hear Sally's voice next to me, I turn my head to see that she is looking at Carter on top of my desk. "A boyfriend?"

I shake my head no, taking out my New York Giants mouse pad. Yes, I have become a fan of American football during my stay in New York. "He was my partner in New York, sort of like a brother to me."

"He's pretty cute." She comments to me. I shrug my shoulders, though I do know it to be true. I had a crush on him for two months after we first began to be partners. To think that I used to have one on him now is sad, because I would never look at him like that ever again. I close my box and put it under my desk. "So, I've seen you talking to freak before." Freak... freak... oh, she means Sherlock. The fact that she called him a freak unnerves me but I try not to let it show. I nod my head to her before plopping in my chair, swivelling it around to face her. Sherlock does have his strange habits, I learned, but I wouldn't call him a freak.

Sally says to me carefully, "Be careful around him." When I look up at Sally, I see her looking down at me with concern and like I'm a little naïve... like I'm a child. I raise my eyebrow puzzled. Why is she giving me a warning? And about him? I cross my arms over my chest and incline my head up at her. Sherlock is arrogant and cold at times, but I think he's harmless from the two weeks I have worked along his side.

Plus she is giving _me_ a warning? She's not my mother, is she? "Okay..." I start to her, my puzzlement leaks into my tone of voice. "But why?"

"He's a psychopath," Sally says to me like it's obvious. Anderson said the same thing to me, and I didn't believe it then. Sally looks down at me with seriousness edged on her face. I frown at her. He doesn't seem like a psychopath to me. I know, I have seen plenty. Sociopath, though? I can see.

"Is he?" I ask her. "I just thought he was a man with an ego bigger than Gordon Ramsey." I chuckle almost coldly at my own joke. She doesn't find it really amusing, so I awkwardly stop. I tell her after a short moment of silence, "Sherlock may lack emotions, be extremely intelligent, and sometimes get into the minds of killers that we may think that he is the killer himself, but I hardly think that calls for him to be called a psychopath, Donovan. Perhaps a sociopath, but not a psychopath."

"Both are the same thing, Wilder." Sally tells me almost sounding annoyed. I swallow my dignity and don't bother to really speak up for myself. She's lucky that's she's my superior. "I've told Lestrade this over and over again and I've told John," she starts to me. I try to make it seem like I care for what she is saying. "It doesn't matter if he is a psychopath or a sociopath, they both get _bored_. And one day, we are all going to be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the one who put it there." I stop myself from logging into the database and look up at her slowly.

She is right. Psychopaths and sociopaths do get bored easily, but to actually say that Sherlock will commit murder at some point... is something I cannot even fathom. It also puts me off. I don't know if I really want her as a friend for even thinking that. Sherlock has a brilliant mind, but he does have emotions, a lack of them, but they are there. He's not a completely a machine all of the time.

I try to act that it doesn't bother me the slightest, but my head is still whirling from her warning. "You bring up a point, but I can't avoid him." I tell her, making it seem like I'm not offended that she is scolding me like a child. I don't need a lecture. I'm twenty-nin—twenty-six years old. I don't even see my parents any more because of their constant lecturing. I don't need it here.

"None of us can unless Lestrade sees what I said." She says sounding irritated. "I don't mean to be talking to you like this though," she starts to me, suddenly sounding like a friend more than a mother. I'm still not a fan of her right now. "I just want to warn you so you don't get hurt down the line when it happens."

"That's very nice of you to, uh, care like that." I say to her with a small, fake smile before looking up at her. "But can I be a little bit frank with you, Sargent?" Sally raises her eyebrow and faintly I hear that voice in my head actually groan as I stand up from my seat. Once again my mouth talks faster than my mind can even comprehend. I cannot hold the disdain I felt before. That's not me.

"You may be my superior and I may be just the new girl in Scotland Yard, but that does not give you the _right_ to talk to me like you are my mother and talk down to _me_." Her eyebrows knit together as I pause. "If I want to befriend Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to do so no matter what you tell me. Thank you for your advice, I appreciate it, but next time you decide to give it, don't. I can take care of myself."

Her eyebrows do knit together like she is puzzled at what I said, but I can see she understands. She moves away from my desk with her eyes narrowed at me. I think I may have just been put on her shit list, like I really care about that. "Don't say that I didn't warn you though." She tells me.

"I won't." I say to her shortly before I watch her stalk away from my desk. My eyes follow her before I look over at Lestrade's door that is wide open. I still have my job to do. I glance back to where Sally has gone before I go to Lestrade's office to take some of the load out of it. Might as well get this started.

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_**So I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Like I said, I thought the story was going a bit slow with the case going on... you know? I don't know, it could have been just me who felt like that. Thank you for reading and see you next time :)**_


	8. Negotiating with Anne Taylor

_**Okay, a very quick update, but I had an immediate idea that I couldn't ignore for this chapter. I also had fun writing it, like a lot of fun. I hope you enjoy the new chapter and hope that all my American fans had fun yesterday on the Fourth. :)**_

_**Review Reply:**_

_**Halfblood Pride: Yeah, I'm sorry that it was :/. But I felt that the case was getting too complicated for me to write and that I should have outlined it better than how I did, you know? But I'm glad that you still enjoyed the chapter :) Hope you enjoy the update! Thank you for your review! :)**_

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**Chapter Seven: Negotiating with Anne Taylor**

"When are you leaving here?" Martha asks me as I enter the inn. I take out my key and give her a slight nod. I found out the landlady's name is Martha when I've finally had a full conversation with her. She wanted to know where I was all night one day, like she is supposed to be in charge of _me. _I paid her for my two and a half weeks already with the money I had already to shut her up. I try to ignore her. To be honest, I may be here for another month by how things are looking with a flat. "Someone came looking for you this afternoon." She says when I don't answer.

I stop in my place before I slowly turn around to face her, fixing my strap of my purse on my shoulder. "Who?"

"Oh, now I got your interest." Martha says with a strange smile. I try not to roll my eyes at the woman, she's older than me and that's a little rude. "They didn't say." She tells me after a slight pause. "They did say though that they're a friend of yours." Friends? I have one or two of those. "Saw ya on the telly after your case."

"It wasn't a tall male, with curly dark hair, was it?" My head goes to him immediately. I haven't heard or seen Sherlock since my press conference. Maybe he wants another interrogation like he had done here before. The woman shakes her head no. "Oh, what about a small male with blonde hair... sort of looks like a cute hedgehog?"

"It was a girl, Wilder." A girl? I don't have any friends that are girls, I ruined my friendship with Sally two days ago (we haven't really talked since I told her off). Besides we both just got off of work an hour ago, I hardly think that she popped in during the afternoon while she knew I was still at Scotland Yard drinking my black coffee. Mrs. Hudson is the only other person of the female population here that could be a friend of mine, even if we talked to each other only once, who would visit me. But she has no reason to visit me. Then there's Molly Hooper, who I only talked to once.

I furrow my brow at Martha confused. "Did she say why she came?"

"No, she only said she wanted to visit you. She didn't even leave me a message, the girl." Martha says going through her log to see if the girl has left one. I notice that she only has one other person staying at the inn with me. Her handwriting is so sloppy that I can't even begin to comprehend it. "She was small, brown hair, looked to be a doctor of sorts. Still in her scrubs."

"Doctor?" I ask, I am only acquainted with one doctor who isn't a doctor and a female. Then an idea occurs to me. If she's still wearing her scrubs, then maybe she had a name tag. "Okay, Martha, really think now. If she was still in her work uniform, did she have a name tag or something on her that said where she worked or the first letter of her name? Something at all?"

"I don't know," she tells me. I shake my head at her before coming to her desk. This may be the most I have ever talked to her since the morning after a night out. "Why would I pay attention to those things?"

"You should pay attention to those things." I say to her, almost sounding annoyed. "It may save your life one day if you simply observe what people have on them." I swear, if I saw her, with simple glances to a name tag I would have figured it out. Hell, this woman probably didn't even ask for her name.

"Well, how am I supposed to know if she was out just as quick she was in? Besides, I run an inn, dear, I'm busy."

"You only have two people staying here and that's me and some other guy. You didn't even ask for her name which is proper for any business owner to do! She could have been a bloody murderer for all you knew." I didn't mean to sound so cold with what I said. I mean, it sounds almost foolish for any person to do. That's the first thing someone would ask usually. _Usually._ Martha looks at me, an insulted and realization mixed in her face.

Her eyebrow raises now, my confusion on my face grows. "Wait..." She says to me. I look at her almost dumbfounded by this woman. "I did ask for her name." My respect grows somewhat for her at the sound of it. "I remember now, she did give it."

"Okay then, what is it?" I enquire to her slowly. My impatience is growing, I just want to go upstairs and sleep this day off with a bottle of whatever I happen to have left in my stash. If I do have any. Martha stays silent. I cannot tell. Is she ignoring me or thinking about this hard? I tell myself that she's an old woman who really might not have a good memory. I lean against her desk, crossing my arms on top of it before I tap my fingers. _Tap, tap, tap, tap_, four taps of my fingers could speed up any thought processes of any one around me. It makes them annoyed enough to get me quick answers.

It doesn't do the trick right away. But eventually, it does. "Beatrice... something or other."

"Beatrice..." I say to her uncertain. I... I don't know any Beatrice from this life, and the life before. Beatrice... I know I haven't met one at all these past weeks and I have met people. I shrug my shoulders at her, "Never heard of her. But next time she comes around and I'm not here, give her my number."

"I'm not your secretary."

"I'm one of the reasons your inn is still making money, so if I were you, I would be my secretary." I tell her, then I take my arms from her desk before I turn on my heel to go up to my room. "Maybe I'd pay you extra."

"Don't talk to me like that, girl. I'll have you thrown out on the streets."

"No you wouldn't," I tell her without even turning back, "if you do then I'll have your son arrested for his horrible art forgery. Don't test me." Martha doesn't rebuke anything to me. I assume that her son really is the reason for the horrible artwork hanging up on my walls. I climb the steps up and walk down the hall to my room. I slide my key into the lock and turn it slightly before I throw it on my bed.

Closing the door behind me, I go to my drawer and take out a bottle of wine. I take out a crystal glass from there too, you cannot drink wine out of a bottle.

I take out my cork screw and use it for the cork before I pour the wine delicately in its glass. "Cheers to me." I say, I pick up the glass of wine and look to the mirror behind me. Tonight I was supposed to go to the bar with my fellow team in Scotland Yard in celebration of my first case, my job, and the end of my paperwork. But... to be honest, I wanted to be by myself. I like it better.

* * *

I take the day off the next day for flat searching. It really is about time. Martha was far too quick to give me ten addresses of open flats, she gets a listing every single week for all of us, uh, _deportees. _She saw my enthusiasm actually grow though when she gave me the list. It's also a very nice to actually do some flat searching. Cold, but nice. It's a good excuse to actually shrug on a coat and a scarf, grab a good coffee (I was feeling a latte today instead of my usual black coffee), and walk around London. I don't even take a cab to the first flat I call.

It's a one bedroom flat in central London. There's a bath, a decent sized sitting room, and a small kitchen, which is good I often eat out anyway. The landlord is a short man, shorter than me, round-looking and rather big ears. His big eyes are constantly looking around like he is afraid someone's watching him. For some reason, when I told him I was a detective, he got more paranoid. His eyes also went to the cup of coffee in my hand when I got to the white carpeted bedroom. Though I told him that I was meticulous, I like things to be cleaned. He likes that I like that, and we talked about cleanliness, which was the weirdest conversation of my life.

But that doesn't stop him from being so enthused about the subject. After my slight tour, I tell him with a sip of my coffee, I'm not really interested in it. Especially after he tells me the rent. I can afford it, but the rent for the flat was not worth it.

I must have went through six cups of coffee by the time I wanted lunch. So I have gone through five of the ten, one of them I actually really like. I even like the name of the address. Although, I didn't really eat lunch. I had half of my sandwich and go to call the closest one. The woman sounds sweet on the phone so hopefully the flat is just as sweet. I want to move out of the inn maybe by the end of the week. I collect my things and leave the café, walking the five blocks I have to get to the single flat.

I feel wired too, I think you can only imagine why. I had six coffees barely eating anything. Sometimes that's just not wise. I stuff my hands in my pockets, keeping my head forward. But it's strange when I walk. My eyes glance up to see a video camera pointed at me. I stop in my place for a moment, and watch the camera with my eyebrow raised. I narrow my eyes at it, before turning around to face it fully. If I was in New York, I would be pushed around right now. But the sidewalks aren't as congested as they would be there. Of course there are people, and some are bumping into me, but some people aren't as rude. In New York, I think my face would have met the pavement promptly right now.

"That's strange." I mutter to myself, still staring at the camera openly. Hoping I'm wrong, I turn around and go forward to the flat. I may just be paranoid. Maybe I talked to Mr. Buckley this morning for too long about cleaning products. You hear a lot of cars rolling past on this street as main as it is, but not at this time. Most of everyone is at work and five cars, at least, have passed me. I try to pay attention forward, not to what is becoming next to me.

But I hear the distinct crunch of tires on the street's pavement following my footsteps. The tires sound like they are moving slowly, almost as if they are creeping up behind me. I tilt my head towards it, trying to ignore it, but it becomes slightly difficult. I don't dare look back at the camera, look next to me to see the creeping car, and I assume that results with the telephone booth ringing a few steps ahead of me. I stop in my place at that moment, staring at the phone booth in disbelief.

I still don't glance next to me to see the car, but I go forward to the phone booth. I close myself in there quickly, getting strange looks from a lot of people passing by before I pick up the phone. "Hello," I say cautiously.

"Hello, Miss Taylor." My eyes immediately widen at the name said. The voice coming from the other end is speaking into the phone quietly, most likely close to the receiver. He has a medium-pitched voice and it just sounds like it belongs to a male. He is either a male or a woman trying to sound like one and failing. But Taylor... He called me Taylor. The name sends me to grit my teeth.

I ask him lowly, "Who is this?"

"Look across the street, Miss Taylor," he tells me, completely ignoring my question. I reluctantly look across the street. A camera like the other one before, is pointed straight at me. "Do you see that camera, Miss Taylor?"

"Why ask when you already know?" I question. "Who is this?"

"You will find out if you get in the car, Anne." Anne. Not only has he called me Taylor, but he's called me Anne. My first name. I feel my heart rate increase as my eyes glance over at the car. "It would be of your best interests." The man over the phone tells me.

I take a deep, nervous breath through my nose before I say, "Oh? And why's that?"

"Just get in the car." He says to me, almost exasperated. Before I say something back, I hear the line go dead on the other side. I grip the phone tight, my eyebrows knit together before I remove it from my ear. My eyes narrow down at it before I slowly put it back. I stay there for a moment in the phone booth, staring at the car. How do they know who I am? I... I don't understand. The black car stares me down. The driver stares at me too through the tinted windows before I see him get out of the car, with those shades you see people from the government wear, and go to the other side. He opens the back door for me.

I swallow to myself before I try to seem composed. Inside, I'm screaming. I slowly get out of the phone booth, forgetting what I am exactly doing today. The driver looks me up and down as I walk up to the car. "Where am I going?" I question him, but he doesn't say a word. I see his eyes go inside of the car as if that is his way of telling me to get in. Against every piece of my being, I slide into the back seat of the car. There is a woman there about my age, sitting next to me with her eyes stuck on her phone, her fingers are flying away at the keyboard.

The door slams next to me and I hear the driver go to the front of the car. My eyes find the brunette and I ask her, "What's your name?" The silence in the car already is making me nauseous.

She briefly acknowledges me by looking from her phone. "Anthea." Oh... Anthea... strange name. Then she looks back down at her phone, which is probably the poor thing's lifeline. I nod my head at that.

"I'm assuming that you know my name then."

"Yes, Anne." She says to me without looking up at me. Anne. She knows my actual name, too. Isn't this wonderful?

"Do you know where we're going?" I ask her, hoping she might just answer.

"Yes." She says shortly. Not saying a word after that though that would answer my more specific question. She won't answer me, I may as well not even give it a shot.

"You're not going to tell me though." It's not a question, it's a statement. Anthea doesn't look up at me still, her fingers typing away at either a text or an email. I bet this is what she is paid to do all day, sit on that phone and type. I wish that was my job... but I sort of do that at my desk when I don't have a case to really go solve.

She chuckles after a moment, but since it happens almost a minute after my statement I figure it's because of something on her phone. But she says to me, "Right you are." This is going to be a long ride. I go to look over the window that is tinted just like the rest of the car, but I can still somewhat see outside of it since it is still broad daylight. By the direction that they are going though, it seems I'm going to the docks of London.

They take me to a fish warehouse. You know how I know it has to do with fish? It smells like it, actually, it reeks of fish. I try not to breathe in the air as I get out of the car. Anthea, the most sociable person I may have ever met, does not get out of the phone. She's probably on Twitter since she can barely say a sentence. The driver goes back to the front and waits in the car. I look straight ahead to see a man standing there with his cane in hand. He has light brown hair, _thin_ light brown hair, and an almost non-existent hairline. He also looks like he has a permanent smug look on his face.

We stare at each other for I don't know how long, I'm not even counting the minutes. But it feels like minutes. The minutes I feel could very well be seconds to him. My heart beats against my chest quickly, I feel I might as well explode. "Don't be scared, Miss Taylor." He says. Just from his voice I can tell he is the man who has called me. My brow furrows at him, but I don't say anything to express my confusion. "Take a seat." He gestures in front of him at the lonely chair in the middle of the warehouse. I glance at it, before slowly going toward it and taking my seat.

I cross my legs nervously, feeling sweat gather on the top of my forehead and come down slowly. I try to form some sort of words. I clear my throat, look around myself, before stating to him, "You are dressed... awfully fancy for this fishy warehouse, aren't you?" I look back at him. He is wearing a dark pinstriped suit with a red tie, buttoned underneath a greyish vest. The cane makes him look like a gentleman from the olden days. I can tell he doesn't need it. He is standing with it to make a show out of it and to demonstrate it as something. Actually, now that I have a better look at the cane, it's more of an umbrella. Actually, it is an umbrella, a pointy umbrella.

"One must be discreet, as you know." He says to me, speaking each word slowly and almost in a drawled out fashion. One must be discreet. I haven't been that lately. I still don't breath in the air here, it's almost like if I breathe in the smell of dead fish I would die. This one doesn't seem to mind.

I nod my head to him, flashing him a slight smile, "That I do. And who is the one being discreet with me? Mary Poppins?" I couldn't help it, the moment it slipped out I thought he might take that umbrella and hit me over the head with it. He doesn't. He stays where he is, with the umbrella still on the ground, and with the sneaky, smug look on his face almost wiped clear off his face. I drop my small smile, "I was only kidding. You... you don't look like Julie Andrews."

"You like to joke around, Anne. I can see that." Is it strange that every time he says my name I nearly cringe? "Don't." I bet it's not of my best interests to really joke now. But a part of me is still expecting him to break out in a chorus of Supercalafragilisticexpialidocious. Even though it partly sounds atrocious, coming from him. "Is it right that you are also, Detective Meredith Wilder?"

My tongue nervously presses against the inside of my mouth and I nod my head to him stiffly. "Anne Taylor... daughter of Helen and Vernon Taylor, prominent members of the British government, if I am right."

"My mother's a lawyer, a leading one and my father keeps failing at joining parliament. So, yes, you sort of are." I tell him honestly. My father is a failed politician but still gets money for being a failed politician, I still don't know what he really does for a living. My mother is a lawyer and wanted me to be one, but obviously that didn't turn out how she wanted.

"Your older brother, William... runs a small business in London while your parents are supporting him."

"I didn't know that actually, I'm sure mum and dad are _so_ proud of him." I tell him sarcastically. I know my parents, they wanted my brother and I to be scholars, earning big bucks, drive fancy cars, and marry into families that will just make my family bigger and better. They are so out of this century, that it's so unbelievable. I wish they could time travel back to the 1800s where their old-fashioned beliefs may be more accepting than in the 21st century.

"And then there's you." He starts to me. I raise my eyebrow at this, I'm not sure I'm liking this mysteriousness around this man. Who is he and how does he know all this shit? I almost don't want to hear about myself. He goes into his suit pocket to take out this little red book. My eyes find it and narrow at it. What is in that book about me? He flips open to a page before he starts reading, "Anne Taylor, otherwise known as Meredith Wilder, who is actually aged 26, not 29. Went into the PhD program for Law in Oxford University, impressive, but dropped out at the age of 21. Conspired with four, maybe five others in a robbery that shook the centre of London's government bank, stealing 724,017.64 pounds and wiring it into an American account under the name Charlie Manson, who by the way, also conspired with you and converted the money into American bills that were a part of yours and Paul Ferguson's share."

"Who the bloody hell are you?" I mutter to him almost amazed.

"The government has caught a Sandra White, Darryl Grand, Charles Manson, and Veronica Harris, all of which say that you and Mr. Ferguson are the ring leaders of the operation." Rats, the lot of them. I don't say anything now. It all comes together. "But... the strangest thing, there was a Paul Ferguson in New York City at the time, but there was not an Anne Taylor. You nearly disappeared off the map. Paul was watched by the American government," my eyebrows perk at this. How long was he watched?

He continues on, I don't want him to. "Unknowingly at first, of course. But you were figured out long before you came here the moment you went to take out money from his account."

"I'm going to ask you again, who are you?"

"You are an intelligent woman, you almost match the intelligence of one Sherlock Holmes. I think you may have figured it out the moment you have gotten into that car." He nods over to the black car. Why is he mentioning him now? He has mentioned all of my friends that I have had, except for the girl who helped me escape London, and he then mentions the consulting detective I just worked with. But the man is right. I figured out who he was the moment he started talking to me.

"So, cut the mysterious act and tell me who are you in the government." I tell him coldly. My impatience is just rising. The man just looks at me, the smug look from before is back on his face. "You're trying my patience."

"I occupy a small position within the British government." I highly doubt his position is small, but I don't say anything to him. I'm in enough shit as it is right now. "We soon worked along Mr. Ferguson later this year to bring you here, Miss Taylor. He, in return of his full freedom from arrest, had to bring you here discreetly and give us the amount of money he has taken from our government."

I snort at that, crossing my arms over my chest. "Did he now?" That sounds like Paul actually. "Has he given you the money that he has taken? We did barely spend any. Except for my plastic surgery, our flights, and our flat. Plus the money accumulated from me working and him sitting on his arse all day."

"He has not. Apparently, he doesn't have it."

"He doesn't." I tell him with a smirk on my face. Now, that I know what Paul really did, I am so happy I decided to fuck him over before I left. Literally, the day before I left. I hacked into his Bank of America account, which I had to do because he changed everything inside of it, and transferred it all, having it all automatically converted into British currency, into an account I had made when I first came to New York with the help of an old friend in case something like this would happen. "So, it was us and three other people, Charlie didn't have a share of it. So, in American dollars, Paul and I shared $275,000. Now, I could have taken more from your government but to be honest, I didn't want to take so much that it 'shook' it's very centre, using your words. Because if I did take more like I originally planned, then that would have give you all a bigger incentive to actually look for me."

"All four of our informants have said that you and Paul have taken the biggest share." He contradicts me.

I chuckle harshly at this, oh boy, if any of them gets out of prison, I'm going to wring all of their necks. I even shake my head at this. "I don't seem to know what you're talking about."

"I think you do." He simply states to me. "You and Paul only left them all to split $100,000 with each other, in American dollars." Kill them. Kill them all. I'm going to do a lot more than wring their necks, I'm going to really just... skin them alive. I can probably get away with it, I am a detective and I know what detectives look for. "So that would mean you and Paul have to your share, around," he looks to his little red book again and then reads it off, "664, 552.87 pounds."

"Which doesn't yet bring me to be a British millionaire, but I am one in the States."

"Where is the money, Anne?" He asks me almost impatiently.

I shrug my shoulders, "Obviously I have it. But I'm not giving it to you. I rightfully earned it."

"You stole it from us."

"And I hardly think that that much money really makes a dent. If it did, I don't think you would have waited this long to actually pick me up if you knew that Anne Taylor was me this entire time. I honestly think that you guys are mad that I actually went past your shitty security." See? I don't get that nervous when I know what I'm talking about. This is why I as supposed to go into law. "I may have broke the law, sir. But that was three years ago. If you know me I have been feeling very guilty while spending the money since I have been catching criminals just like me. Surely, you've heard about the serial killer I helped caught here."

"I have, you weren't being very discreet about it, judging by your press conference a few days ago. A very well done."

"I wasn't the only one who caught him though." I tell him, my smirk actually growing at him. I'm sure he knows that all too well. "I'm sure you know that though."

"Of course I do, Anne. You worked with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

"And DI Lestrade, DS Do—."

"Let's be honest, Anne," he says to me, leaning his weight onto that damn umbrella. I would honestly like to take it from him to watch him fall onto the smelly, fish ground. "You three have done most, if not all the work on the case that you have just solved. I think you would agree that some of the police force in Scotland Yard are incompetent."

I stare at him almost in disbelief. "I'm not going to say that I do."

He looks at me for a moment. I'm wondering if he could see how I'm insulted that he would insinuate something like that. They aren't incompetent at all... He still has that smug look on his face, I can tell he is enjoying myself either squirming or bantering with him, or even me just being rude with him. I'm not enjoying this. This is almost like torture since I want to know now what is going to happen to _me_. My life here is probably ruined now, I probably would end up in jail, even if I didn't steal that much. Like I said, I don't think it's the amount of money I took that they are upset about, it's the fact I got into their tightly locked system. Me, a twenty-three year old woman. I don't blame them for being upset, I would be too if I was outsmarted.

"Very well, back to the present subject at hand," he starts to me, briefly glancing down at the point of his umbrella touching the ground. "I know that you are not going to give us the money back."

"Wise man." I comment.

He ignores it, of course. "That's why I have another way for you to keep your identity as Meredith Wilder, Anne." My eyebrow raises at this curiously. My smirk actually falls from what he said. He is going to present me with a deal? _I _am going to get a deal. "You will keep your money and your identity, and I may pay you a sum of money myself, under _several_ conditions." I stare at him, not speaking a word. If I am being presented with something that would really save my hide, I'm most likely going to take it and not talk because sometimes I talk and ruin things.

I nod for him slowly to continue on. "It seems you are friendly with a Sherlock Holmes, is that right?"

"This has to do with him?" I immediately ask him. This I laugh at, why does everything always come down to that man? Ever since I've met him. I get warnings, I get nabbed by the government, and I almost get killed by a serial killer. "Why doesn't that surprise me? He didn't help you get to me, did he?"

"This may surprise you, Anne, but Sherlock Holmes had no hand in this."

"He didn't?" Then why does this man have anything to do with this meeting? Why are we mentioning him now of all times then? "I don't seem to understand, what does Sherlock Holmes have to do with this?"

"What is your connection with him?" He ignores my question.

I tilt my head a little bit to the side before taking a breath. I shrug my shoulders at him, "We work together, that's all really."

"You have been seen going in and out of 221b Baker Street. I believe you even stayed there overnight once."

"That was..." this sort of looks bad. "That was because of the case, we were both trying to decipher a code."

"And you are also considering moving into 221c." He says to me. I'm wondering how he knows all of this stuff. I know he is a part of the government, but this is a little bit too extensive for even a government official, with a _small_ position, to actually know about me. Unless he has been watching me. I don't answer him, if he really has been watching me, he would know that I'm not and that I am most likely going to take the flat that I visited earlier and liked. I highly doubt that after this I am going to visit the other five. "But, I can tell from your expression that you really would not want to be that close to him. Not many do, he isn't the type to accumulate friends, as you can tell."

"Well, he has gotten to know John as a friend." I say to him, trying to contradict him. "And then there's you, but I have somewhat of a nagging feeling that you aren't a friend."

"I'm an enemy." Enemy? He has a lot of those it seems. I nod my head at him. "He thinks I'm an enemy, anyway, he might even say his arch-enemy, he does love dramatics."

"Oh, I know." I mutter under my breath.

"Are you planning to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"That depends. Do I need him to keep me out of prison and giving you the money? I would like to stay Meredith Wilder instead of Anne Taylor. Everyone would be extremely confused if I'm seen with iron around my wrists, if you know what I mean."

"If you don't want iron around your wrists, as you put it, then all I'm requiring from you is information. Nothing that you'd be uncomfortable with giving, just to tell me what he is up to, is all." He says this so casually. I stare at him, my mouth parts. I would ask why, but I don't know if I want to know the reason. "I worry about him, Anne. He concerns me." Why would he be concerned with him—oh. They're family. I look him up and down and see some similarities. This man obviously is powerful and intelligent, maybe matching Sherlock's intelligence but he uses it for different things. He is about the same height, give or take. The presence of them is almost the same, cold and emotionless.

Arrogance, almost the same amount, maybe even more because this one likes to mock. Mysterious, but Sherlock is mysterious with how he does things, not really mysterious in concerns to himself. He makes himself known. He conveys concern, his father, maybe? No, too young. This man looks like he is in his mid-forties. Unlikely he was a teen father, a teen father wouldn't have made such a good living and obtain a high position like his in the government. Uncle, perhaps? No, I don't think so. Uncles don't really have that much concern to really give. I'm not completely throwing that idea out though.

But I figure it out. My older brother doesn't express that much concern for me, I'm jealous. He actually hated me because I was the favourite child. "That's so adorable," his face falls at the sound of that as I half-smile at him, "an older brother caring for his younger brother."

"You figured it out." Sherlock's older brother says to me, looking a little surprised.

"I'm a detective when I'm not a criminal, Holmes. It's my job to figure these sort of things out." I hate how people are shocked how I can easily figure things out through observations. It's really irritating sometimes.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes." He says to me with a slight nod of his head. At least I know now who is the man that may or may not be signing me checks. Why do both of the Holmes brothers have odd names? Mycroft? I mean, what? I don't think it's really appropriate to ask, I feel like he is a mama's boy.

"Well, Mycroft," I start to him, "let's talk about this little deal you have, shall we?" Mycroft looks at me with interest. My eyes seemed to have lit up when I said that that. If Anne Taylor could disappear, I'd be happy with it.

_**Two hours later.**_

_**Thank you, Sherlock Holmes, for another interesting day. -MW**_

The moment the message is sent, I look down at my dinner. Chinese food, I've missed it. I take a large intake of rice before I hear my phone go off immediately. I smirk to myself before I look at it.

_**I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. -SH**_

I type in an explanation quickly before I go back to my food.

_**I met your 'arch-enemy' today. Quite the dramatic one, I see how you are related. -MW**_

Why not tell him? I can't give information to Mycroft without Sherlock knowing, he'd figure me out the moment I try to even spy. I think he would be okay with it, sort of. I mean... he can text me what he's up to, I don't have to pop in the flat every now and then.

_**Did he offer you money to spy on me? -SH**_

_**A lot more than money. -MW**_

After two hours of negotiation with this man, both Mycroft and I have come to the agreement that I am to be paid, if I give back _some_ of the money. Only some though. He really wants information on his brother though, enough to let me go almost completely and pay me for it? Of course, there are other things I have to do, like go through tests with the government to make sure their security isn't crap, but that's it. We both didn't really give the other enough wiggle room around this deal. He also said that he will take care of the 'problem' I have in New York. I don't think Paul would really be happy that he's doing time, while I'm free to roam.

Mycroft said he's not making Anne disappear though. She's still around and if someone else in the government were to find out that I am Anne or even if Scotland Yard finds out, Mycroft isn't going to help me.

_**Did you take it? -SH**_

_**Yes. -MW**_

I take a deep breath as I put the phone down on the table. I go back to my food, expecting my response to not be right away. But, I hear the lovely ping of my phone. I knit my eyebrows together and look down at my phone to see Sherlock.I read the text message in disbelief.

_**Good, let's split the fee then. -SH**_

I chuckle at the message for a moment, the corner of my mouth twitches into what I think is a smirk. I must look ridiculous, looking at my phone like this. I text him back.

_**Seriously? Okay, then, 50/50? -MW**_

He doesn't respond right away.

_**Yes, 50/50. Mycroft pays on commission. So let's make this weekly. -SH**_

_**Deal. A 'what you up to?' conversation every week either through texts or house visits. -MW**_

_**Dull, but okay. Every Friday then. -SH**_

_**You're not taking my Fridays from me, Sherlock. Wednesdays. -MW**_

_**You don't have friends. Fridays. -SH**_

He's right, I don't have friends to really go out with. My fork plays with a lone fried wanton on my plate before I decide to text him back after a minute worth of thinking.

_**I have friends. Wednesdays. -MW**_

_**John doesn't count. Fridays. -SH**_

_**I have more friends... -MW**_

Maybe the '…' wasn't wise to do. But whatever.

_**This … means no. So, Fridays. -SH**_

I let out a loud sigh before taking a bite out of that wanton and dropping it back on my plate. I debate with myself for a moment, closing my eyes before I decide to pick up my phone.

_**Fine, Friday. Starting the one after this coming. -MW**_

_**Deal. -SH**_

We don't text each other after that. I carry on with my Chinese food and think about the conversation I just had with Sherlock on my phone. I glance down at it and then out of pure astonishment, I go to check our conversation again to make sure that it actually happened. See? I knew he wouldn't be mad about it. Well, actually, I wasn't sure about it. Actually, I really was uncertain about it, but I'm jut happy he is okay with it and is willing to cooperate with me. Now, I can eat in peace.

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes is really fun to write, like, I don't know he has this sort of mystery about him that I like. I hope I did his character justice. Well, I thought that I would do something different with her meeting with Mycroft, like taking the actual deal. Of course though, she did have a bigger incentive that wasn't money, too. Hope you enjoyed the chapter though, I think I may start dipping into the Blind Banker case next chapter. Or, who knows, I may hold it off. We'll see.**_

_**Oh! I forgot to mention on here! I might be writing a Hannibal/Sherlock crossover in the future that takes place after Will Graham is in jail and charged as the Chesapeake Ripper. The full summery is actually on my profile, but would anyone be interested in reading it? Like I said, it's probably not going to be published until I'm done with House of Cards.**_

_**See you next time!  
Tiana xoxo**_


	9. The Bizarre Blonde

_**Hello everyone! I'm back with the next chapter, thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and also followed/favorited the story! Everyone of you are the reasons I write and bring me such inspiration. So, I also decided to make the setting of the story clearer than it has, since I kind of changed it. The story, well the first installment (this) takes place in Series 2, Episode 1. The Scandal in Belgravia, but I'm not getting into our favorite dominatrix just yet ;) since there are cases in between The Great Game and Irene Adler. This one, actually, being one of them. **_

_**So, from the Sherlock stories I have read that do follow along with the series, I don't really see the other cases that him and Watson do work on. Like The Speckled Blonde or The Aluminium Crutch or even The Six Thatchers, all of them are on the BBC John's blog and you can read them. So I decided to write those, interpret what happened through John's blog I stumbled upon on google one day, and yeah. **_

_**Okay, now I'm done with my really long author's note, so I hope you do enjoy the chapter!**_

_**HalfbloodPride: Thank you so much! I'm glad you think Meredith is awesome and he will soon have it all figured out ;) Enjoy the new chapter!**_

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**Chapter Eight: The Bizarre Blonde**

"I enjoy the fact that you call me so early your time, but do you really find it necessary to actually call me in the afternoon?" I say in the phone loudly, gathering my groceries for my new flat that I moved in a few days ago. My new landlady has been most generous in grabbing a few necessities for me (of course I paid her extra to do that), but I figured that I might as well buy her some things as well. Had her write me down a list of what she needs. But while doing the shopping, I get a phone call from a friend of mine. Yes, a friend.

He chuckles into the phone, "I've had tried to give ya ring around dinner time, my time, but you always seemed busy." God, I miss his accent. I shake my head, pushing my cart down the aisle, seeing boxes of pasta staring at me from the end of it. I could make some sauce tonight for myself and spaghetti to celebrate where I'm living. It took me a month and a half to leave that damn inn.

"Yeah... well, I have been busy." No, I haven't. But it'd look bad if I told him that I haven't been busy. There hasn't been a good murder in what seemed to be weeks, so the New Scotland Yard has been not active. There has been some other crimes, small, but nothing that really wasn't alarming. Sometimes, I don't really go to the Yard unless I have to. Yes, I'll go for a few hours, but what is there for me to really do if I'm not on a case? When Carter called me last week, several times actually, I looked at my phone, let my ringer blare out, and just... ignored it for not good reason. There wasn't any good reason, really. We haven't really talked since our goodbye, which is sad, but true. Maybe I should have picked up, I don't know.

I do add to him, "But you don't have to give me a ring, Carter." I tell him as I go to the meats. The freezing air rushes past me as I examine each of the meats with narrowed eyes. It's so much different shopping here. In New York, the grocery market is just so different. Americans use a lot more preservatives in their foods. "There's a thing called texting, we should try that."

"You're a God awful texter though," he tells me, I can hear the groan in his voice. I pause in the middle of the aisle of freezing, fresh meats, leaning against my cart. "We tried that already too. By the way, since when have you started signing off your texts with MW. I know who you are and you haven't done that all the time."

A certain consulting detective got me in the habit. "A new thing. Not many people know me in London, Smith. If I don't sign off my name some of them may think that I'm someone that I'm not." That sounded better in my head. He doesn't say anything at first.

"Well..." he starts. It is a stupid habit though now. "It's stupid."

"You're stupid. You don't have to be calling me at 7 in the morning either. I think I have taught you the time zone hours before I left."

"I went to the gym and now I'm in my house."

"There's a thing called sleeping. You burn calories that way, too." I tell him with a smirk, picking up a linkage of sausage before carefully putting it in my cart. My cart has a very strange assortment of junk food, organic food, and toiletries. I may just be spending well over an unreasonable amount of money on groceries. I somehow always do.

"That's a myth. What are you doing now anyway? I hear people."

"I'm in the super, buying myself some things for my flat. You know what normal people do."

"Normal people don't wait a month and a half to get their flat. Especially if they are staying in a smelly inn, as you put it." He says to me. I roll my eyes before I pick up a few bags of candy and drop them in the cart.

"I was busy." I tell him shortly before going down the other aisle. The cleaning aisle, the smell of unopened bleach and cleaners makes it to my nose and it reminds me of the conversation I had with the first landlord I met when flat searching.

"Oh yeah, that's right, you were a hotshot for a bit, catching a serial killer upon arriving to London." Carter chuckles into the phone. "What happened to the shop idea?"

"That's boring if there aren't any robberies." I tell him, picking up some detergent. I put it on top of all the food before pushing the cart forward. "I think we both knew that I wasn't going to work in a shop, Smith. How is New York?"

"Not the same at all." He tells me, it's like I can almost hear a frown on his face just from his tone. Carter then adds, "They paired me off with Richard." That is all he needs to say to make me stop in my tracks. I think my jaw actually falls on the ground at the sound of that.

"Dick? They paired you off with the health nut?" I ask loudly, a few people give me dirty looks as I approach the line. I don't even acknowledge them with a glance. I go to the self-check out line with no line. "He eats only lettuce and leaves!"

"I tried to get him to eat a water dog and it didn't work. He's such a—."

"The man has a stick up his arse, more so than you do." I laugh into the phone before I begin to check out my items. "Maybe you can put some whiskey in his coffee when he's not looking. It could loosen him up quite a bit."

"Alcohol's not always the answer, Mere."

"It's always my answer." I reply. As I check out each of the individual items, I can see the price going up. My upper lip curls slightly before I continue on.

"How's London?"

"It hasn't changed much." I lie, it has. It has, but I'm perfectly fine with it. I start bagging my groceries now before I pay for them.

"Did you find your family and old friends... or...?" I raise my eyebrow at the question, swiping my card in the machine and taking my five bags in each hand. Shifting my phone on my shoulder against my ear. Thank God my flat isn't far at all, I didn't bring anything for a cab ride (I hate cabs). I don't answer him right away as I walk out of the market. It has begun to rain, or rather _pour_, while I was inside. "Mere?"

I hate lying to him. It's something that I really don't want to do, but I find myself saying, "Y-Yes I did." I stammer on the answer. "My father's actually helping me a bit before I get on my feet. As for friends... I have, er, some. None of them really old."

"You haven't really tried to contact your old friends?" He asks, I bet that he finds it strange that I haven't. I don't answer him again, I'm too preoccupied with walking and having rain fall on my face. Also I'm trying to balance the phone, my neck is starting to ache. "Maybe you should, to catch up with them." I smile gently, how long am I going to keep this up for though? I can't pretend any more with him—he's my best friend. But he won't be any more if I do tell him everything.

I nod my head, "Yeah, maybe."

* * *

I took a shower since I was soaked to the very bone and had put away my groceries. It was around three in the afternoon when I have gotten a call from Lestrade. I wasn't doing much anyway, I was only watching the telly and reading a good book. Yesterday I have gotten some of the things I have sent from my storage in New York so I was already unpacked... sort of. The flat was also furnished when I moved in. When I got the call, I was actually happy... well, the most someone happy could be when a murder would happen. The home is far from the flat, so I took a cab over, not even stopping at Scotland Yard. Lestrade said I should go straight there.

When I arrive, I see Sally looking concerned toward the building. Lestrade stands a little bit away from her with his hands on his hips. I get to the tape, ducking underneath and turn to Sally. "What do we have?" I ask her curiously, she holds her walkie talkie tightly in her hand as she turns toward me.

"Julia Stoner, age 30," I frown at the age before Donovan continues, "was found in her bed by her sister, Helen. She was about to get married in a few weeks, Percy Armitage. Her step-father is also a big name in the cosmetics industry, you might have heard of him, Dr. Roylott. He was on Connie Prince a couple of times." Connie Prince? She's still on the telly? My mother used to watch her all the time. Probably still does.

"She's still has her show?" I ask her confused.

"Connie Prince was murdered months ago by her brother. In March, I think. You haven't heard?" Lestrade asks me. I shrug my shoulders at him. I probably did, but I don't remember hearing it at all. "Well, I think you should have a look at the body," he tells me, taking me away from Donovan. "The doctor and his other step-daughter are inside in the living room."

"The fiancé isn't here?" I ask him, pulling on gloves from the table. Lestrade shakes his head before he leads her inside. I see Anderson walking out of the home. I can tell that he is a big name. Though I never heard of him, I know that he is just by the size of this place. It nearly takes up half of the block and a black fence around it to protect it. It has two floors, both of the floors having three windows. The front door is a bright blue, making the white siding of the house bright and stand out. There is an overcast today, so this house is perhaps the brightest thing on the block.

The double doors are wide open and when we walk onto the mahogany wood floor, I'm almost overwhelmed by the inside of the home. _Almost._ My home was just as big before... you know. The walls are painted a light blue colour and the furniture is beige, slightly making the inside of the house look like a beach. The house is full of us, every where I turn I see someone from the Yard examining something or looking for something that would lead to the girl's death. "Let me introduce you to the doctor before we go up." Lestrade tells me. I nod my head to him before I follow into the sitting room.

I see Dr. Roylott and his daughter, sitting on the sofa. Both particularly speechless. Helen is looking blankly forward as there is an officer trying to speak with her. She has dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and her eye make-up that once rimmed around her brown eyes have been been smeared. Probably from her crying. Her step-father next to her looks to be in his fifties at least. His green eyes are cast at the arm of the sofa and he has a protective hand on top of his step-daughter's knee. I try to put on my best face for saying cliché phrase, 'My condolences.' We say it to them, they don't believe us, and we don't believe ourselves most of the time. We've seen so many deaths, experienced some ourselves, but we never know the person who has died personally to give condolences. Or at least that's how I see it.

"Dr. Roylott," Lestrade starts to him. The doctor looks up at us, his round head stained with dry tears and his cheeks flushed. I frown down at him, bowing my head slightly in respect. "This is our other detective, Detective Wilder. She'll be assisting me on this case."

His eyes go to me. I extend my hand to him, which he looks down at pointedly. "I wish we could meet under better circumstances, Dr. Roylott. I'm so sorry for your loss." My hand silently falls down to my side as he narrows his eyes back up at me. I can tell I'm not going to get a good handshake.

"Don't be sorry," Roylott tells me, a pang of sadness goes through me when I hear his voice. He has a permanent frown on his face. "You didn't know her."

"You're right, I didn't. But I will do what I can to figure out what had happened to her." I give him a sad smile and he looks back down blankly at the arm of the sofa. I then turn to Helen, who, I've noticed Lestrade hasn't introduced to me. She hasn't even spoken a word since I approached them, most likely hasn't spoken to a word before then either. "Helen," I start to her. She barely acknowledges me, her eyes go to me quickly before looking forward again. "My name's Meredith."

"She hasn't spoken to anyone, detective." Royott says to me almost inaudibly. I turn my head slowly over to him only to see that the man isn't even looking up at me as he says this. "Unlikely she's going to talk to someone she doesn't know."

I tell him softly as I crouch down in front of her, "Unlikely she would. I never said I expected her to." Maybe that isn't the right thing to say. I can feel a reprimanding look come from Lestrade behind me. I swear, he's like a father to me sometimes, especially since I arrived. I ignore it before turning back to Helen who is looking down at me. "I know, I may never understand how you are feeling," I start to her before going into my jacket. I take out a card from the few (I mean, many) that I have made to hand to her. I continue on to her, "but if you ever need an ear or have anything at all to say. Please don't hesitate in giving me a ring."

She doesn't nod her head, but she does take the card weakly out of my hand. I offer her a small smile before I stand straight up. "We will just be a bit and then we will leave you two alone. Come on, Meredith." I hear Lestrade say and feel his hand briefly touch my shoulder before it guides me towards the stairs to lead us to the bedroom Julia was found in. As we go upstairs, Lestrade asks me, "You made yourself cards?"

"Yeah," I reply to him, turning my head. My sad smile turns into a slight smirk before I enquire, "Why? Do you want one? They're free."

"We're at a crime scene," he tells me seriously, his hand going back on my shoulder as if he is ushering me up. "It's not the time to really joke around, Meredith."

"I'm trying to lighten up the mood." I reply before going ahead. When we arrive upstairs, I turn my head to see a pair from the forensics team talking on the side in front of a door. I walk over to the the table they are standing by and pick up a pair of gloves, slipping them on quickly as I go through the door. My smirk immediately falls off when I see the girl's bedroom. I walk slowly in, my eyes quietly taking in everything. Julia's bedroom is medium sized, light pink coloured walls with what looks to me a freshly installed ivory carpet. Hanging up on her closet door is her wedding dress that she is supposed to wear in a few weeks, it's a beautiful ivory gown, strapless and a sweetheart neckline. Plain, but elegant.

My eyes then find her, on the bed still, sleeping peacefully. Her body seems to be thwarted to the side, but I hardly think it to be foul play. Most likely from sleeping, she could have been restless. "No visible wounds." I hear Lestrade behind me before I move closer to Julia. What I see afterwards, is surprising. My eyes actually widen as I approach her body... Yeah, no visible wounds all right.

"She is—."

"Covered with spots." Lestrade finishes my sentence. And he is absolutely right. I nod my head in disbelief, as my eyes look up and down her body. They aren't just spots, they look more like hives or welts, something that comes from an allergic reaction. This is just so bizarre. Yes, I have seen someone die from an allergic reaction but not this extensive. This looks like something out of the bubonic plague. For once, I want the blue plastic suit on.

My eyes move up her body to see her face, peaceful and she even has a smile on her face. Her final dream must have been nice. She has a pretty, young face, subtle high cheekbones, almond shaped eyes and a small thin nose. I carefully move my hand to touch her hairline, examining the roots to see that they are a slightly darker colour than her blonde locks. I take a strand of her blonde hair to see that it's dry and almost stringy. Typical hair for someone who dyed it and is hardly taking care of it like she should. I state, "Her hair is dyed blonde."

"I think we have an accident, Wilder." Lestrade says to me before I hear his footsteps. I look over at him, dropping the strands of hair. "She could have gotten an allergic reaction."

"Yes, but this extensive? Greg, this sort of reaction is prevented to an extent. She would have on a bracelet or something," I look at either of her wrists to see a medical bracelet, only to find none. I glance up at her neck to see if there is some sort of medical dog tag on her, none. "Doctors don't hide that sort of thing."

"Then what do you think?" Lestrade asks me, his brow furrowed and his hands placed on his hips. I shrug both of my shoulders before looking back down at her body. There has to be something that I'm not seeing.

"No visible wounds?" I ask him unsure.

"None that we can see, even forensics pulled off the blankets to find nothing."

"This is so strange..." I tell him. I cannot believe that at all, there has to be something that caused something like this. Maybe she was poisoned? Maybe she had something that she recently became allergic to? But I don't think that there is such a reaction to a newly allergic item like this. "Are you absolutely sure, Lestrade?" I enquire to him uncertain. Lestrade looks at me bemused. Maybe I should just shut my mouth and kindly just carry on. But am I crazy, or am I right for thinking that there is something more?

"Of course I'm sure, I bloody well checked the body myself." He says to me, sounding almost offended that I would even say something with doubt. I heave in a sigh before nodding my head, I guess I'll just have to trust him on this.

"Okay, well, I guess if we have missed anything on the body we'll find out in the morgue," I say with a shrug of my shoulders before looking around the room. A thought strokes my head before I ask him, "Are we going to call him, Lestrade?" I turn my head to see his eyebrow already raised.

He seems almost exasperated already. "I would if the pathologist finds something strange in her system. Though, I think it's something simple like an allergic reaction, but we can't eliminate the possibility of poison."

Poison. It's always a possibility, but sometimes it's hard to find who the culprit is. I slowly bob my head before I look around the room. "Did you see any signs of forced entry?" He shakes his head no and to double check this, I go to the door to see if he is right. The usual signs of a forced entry aren't there, no trouble turning the doorknob and no marks that show someone jimmied their way through. Lestrade watches me before I observe the bedroom to see if I can see anything out of the norm, but there is a lack of clues to really go from. The original theory of an allergic reaction seems more right when I'm finished, but I don't want to believe it.

It doesn't seem to add up to me. After two hours of me searching for ways to prove the original theory wrong, Lestrade and I wrap it up in the house before I catch a ride in the squad car to my flat. Surprisingly, Donovan, who I haven't talked to since—basically—the press conference, offered to take me. The two of us hardly spoke a word to each other as I drum my fingers on the dashboard. My eyes watch the street lamps that pass by us. "Lestrade tells me it's an allergic reaction." She says, breaking the silence between us.

I shrug my shoulders, "It looks like it."

"But you don't take it as that." She states that, she doesn't ask it. Well, it seems like she is being the observant one today. Either that or he told her. My eyebrows slightly perk at that, but I don't answer, glancing at the rear-view mirror to watch the cars behind us. We fall into silence again, an awkward one. Until she speaks again, this time she sounds a lot more fake in her friendliness. "How's the new flat?"

"Lovely," I answer her shortly. Unlike her, I intend fully to not fake being friendly. I'm not that kind of person. I don't even have to glance over to see a visible frown on her face.

"Good. I'm glad..." she replies slowly, there is a slight pause before I hear her take in a deep sigh. "I think... we need to take, Meredith."

"Is that why you decided to take me back to my flat?" I ask her curiously. Of course it's why, I knew that the moment I stepped a foot inside of here. She doesn't nod her head at me, but I see the answer in her dark eyes that I knew. I shake my head at her before stating, "There's nothing to really talk about, Sally. We just have a difference in opinion about someone, is all."

"I... I was only trying to give you some advice, that's all." She tries to explain herself to me. I take a deep breath through my nose to calm myself before I turn my head. "I don't trust that man, unlike you and Lestrade, I don't trust him. I've noticed something off about him since day one I started as a Sargent."

"I understand that," I tell her, "but I didn't want the advice. If I did, I would have asked it."

"I was trying to give you a warning, Wilder."

"I didn't ask for that either. You may get a higher salary, you may be above me also, but you are _not_ my mother. I can take care of myself." She glances over at me in disbelief and I can see that she really doesn't believe that at all. But really, she has no idea about me at all. I've been taking care of myself for years. "I don't need to be lectured like I'm a teenager anyway. It's... it's not right."

"So... are you cross with me for bringing it up then?" Sally asks me. I lock my jaw in place before looking out of the window next to me for a moment, the overcast in the London sky let down a few drops of rain. I think it over for a second or two before I look over at her.

I open my mouth to actually reply to her, but then close it again. I'm not exactly _mad _at her. Insulted, sure. But I get over things like this fast. I breath in and then out, slowly, before I actually answer her, "No. Honestly, I got over it an hour afterwards." I see a small hint of a smile come onto her face and I surprise even myself when I find a smile come onto my face also. "It really is nothing... a cup of coffee would fix." I push my luck with this, maybe she will buy me some apology cup for forgiveness.

My eyes look away from her innocently and I play with my hands for a moment like a child would do. I feel Sally's eyes on me before I hear, "You're pushing it, Wilder." Then, with that, I can tell that Sally and I may have just become actually friends. I hear something like laughter come from her. I smirk over at her before looking forward at the street.

* * *

_**Well, I think you all have figured out that this is the case of the Speckled Blonde. All based off of John Watson's blog. Hope you enjoyed the new chapter! I'll try to update before I go away next week, but it's going to be difficult. I have work, two other stories to update before I go on vacation, and college orientation. So, we'll see, but I'll try. Thank you for reading!**_


	10. The Sweet Smell of Murder

_Hello everyone! I just want to apologize for the lateness of this chapter, really. I've gotten a new laptop so I've been putting my files onto here, (including this story and others) and not really that I lost inspiration for this story, just that I've had somewhat of a bit of trouble writing this chapter. But… it's all written now. Thank you for the reviews, alerts, and favorites! It means a lot! And I hope you enjoy Chapter Nine!_

_Review Reply:_

_turtle-sloth-gal: I do watch NBC's Hannibal! And I know how the first case may seem alike to the one you are talking about (Except for the other details with Jacob Hobbs' murders, since he was a cannibal killing and eating girls like his daughter. Though with the other similarities that you've seen, I honestly did it without realizing it), however as you read the case the similarities are almost meaningless because it may look like it on the outside, but really, it's not the same (if that makes sense, because I did mention that the father wasn't the serial killer at all, it just looked as though it was). And also, I don't think I incorporated the name Jacob Hobbs. I have a thing with that, I don't like naming characters after others and when I looked back to see if I did, I couldn't see where I incorporated that name. I know incorporated Garret, but that has no relation to the show at all (since Captain Garret really came before I even began watching the show in the first place, I was a Fannibal toward the end of the show). So, I hope that answers your question and that you see this answer!_

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**Chapter Nine: The Sweet Smell of Murder**

_**Meet me and Lestrade at St. Bart's now. We have a case. –MW**_

_**It's Lestrade and I, not me and Lestrade. –SH**_

_Arse, _I think, looking over at a stoic faced Lestrade. He is staring pointedly at the speckled blonde, his brow furrowed and he almost looks like he is deep in thought. My phone goes off with a text and I look down, opening it to read.

_**This is John on Sherlock's phone. Don't mind him, what sort of case? –JW**_

Great, I would rather talk to John if Sherlock is already acting like an arrogant dick today. I type out why quickly, briefly looking up at the blonde before looking back down at the phone. I describe the small red dots, how there are no clear, or any kind of signs of struggle, there are no allergies that the victim has that would have caused this, and an unknown poison was found in her blood stream.

I show it to Lestrade to check if I haven't forgotten anything. He glances at my phone, but it almost seems like he barely reads it. He gives me a nod and then I take my phone back, pressing the send button. Lestrade looks over at me, "He's not going to come." Lestrade's tone almost sounded bitter as he spoke. He has been bitter ever since the autopsy has been sent to us. I glance over at him before he adds, "I still think this is incidental."

"I disagree." I tell him, turning my head forward. My eyes find Molly walking into the morgue, carrying a carton containing two coffees and one tea. I find myself smiling at the petite woman. "I was beginning to wonder where my coffee has been." I tell her, still smiling. I like Molly. She is a sweet girl, very innocent-like. Her light brown hair is tied back in a side ponytail and she wears little make-up on her narrow face.

"Sorry for the wait, Mere," Molly is the only one that calls me Mere in London so far. I love it. She takes out my coffee cup for me, handing it over. I take the cup in my hand, letting the steam lift up and touch my nostrils for a moment. Coffee is needed on an early morning like this. "The line downstairs was ridiculous."

"Don't worry about it, Molly." I tell her, taking a sip out of my coffee. The searing hot liquid spills into my mouth and I give a slight tremor. I have forgotten that the coffee here is stronger than what it should be. She hands the tea to Lestrade, who reluctantly accepts it.

The phone goes off after Molly places her cup of coffee on the table close by. I look down to open the message.

_**That sounds dull. –SH**_

"He's not coming, right?" Lestrade asks me. I glance over at him before I go to the phone.

_**The girl doesn't have any allergies and an unknown poison is in her system. Hardly dull, it actually sounds like a challenge. –MW**_

"He's coming, just needs some convincing." I tell him honestly. Sherlock would jump at the chance. It will be a challenge for him, I feel anyway. It would either be a challenge or child's play.

Lestrade shakes his head at me, "He can't even deny that it sounds like a reaction to something."

"How can that be possible?" I ask him abruptly, not getting over the fact that he is being too thick to realize that something isn't quite right. "She has no known allergies, and she has something in her system. That doesn't seem like an accident to me."

"She could have been bitten by something." Lestrade tries to reason with me.

"And not have known to be bitten? I'm sorry, Greg, but I think this girl wasn't stupid. If you were bitten by something, you would feel it. Especially if it is poisonous." I have never been bitten or stung by something (knock on wood). But I have seen situations on television where someone gets bitten or stung by poisonous creatures. It looks like it bloody hurts, like your body is convulsing with searing pain and your blood is boiling inside of you, you have the feeling like you are about to explode.

It may not actually feel like that, but bloody hell, it must feel something equivalent to that.

Molly interjects though, "Actually…" Both Lestrade and I look away from each other, my eyebrow raises to see Molly walking to the blonde on her table. I take a sip of my coffee, ignoring the phone as it beeps again, and follow her. Lestrade isn't too far behind. "I've seen something strange on her ankle that you both might want to have a look at."

Lestrade and I exchange a look before we follow Molly's hands at the bottom of the girl's body. She pulls the cloth slightly up, letting us view the body's feet and she points to something that we seemed to have both missed initially. I narrow my eyes to see bite marks just above her ankles. "Bite marks…"

"I was right… she was bit," Lestrade murmurs, looking over the wound, I could feel his head just over my shoulder. "But by what?"

I swallow thickly, thinking that I may actually believe Lestrade and that this may be a reaction. "Well," I start, shifting to get a better look at it. Molly steps aside to give me just enough room for both Lestrade and I. We examine the marks almost together and quietly I try to match an animal with it. I observe out loud, "They are too far apart to belong to a spider. I want to say snake, but how many snakes are there roaming around in the streets of London?"

I look up at Lestrade for the answer. His eyes are really just focused on the bite mark. He answers a minute later, "She may have a couple as pets, or her step-father might."

"Have you seen her room?" I ask him incredulously. "That is not a room of a person who keeps snakes as pets. That is a room of a person who doesn't keep _anything_ as a pet." Her room is the neatest room I think I have ever walked into. The carpet hardly has a hair or speck of dirt on top of it, and her dressers are dusted to a shine that it's almost unbelievable. "The whole _house_ doesn't look like a place where they keep snakes."

"One could have gotten in, escaped from a zoo." Lestrade tries to reason with me still. "We can't eliminate that."

"That sounds ridiculous, too. No one would have noticed a snake slithering in and out of a house?"

"Are you suggesting that this could be something else then?"

"I am suggesting that this could very well be murder and not an accident," I tell him, walking away from Lestrade to check my phone. I can feel Lestrade's eyes follow me as I do so. Grabbing my coffee off of a lab table and taking my phone in my hand, I add before taking a sip of my coffee, "If there is a snake involved, someone must have planted it there, but I don't think the cause of death is the snake, the cause of death is the unknown poison in her body."

"You think the poison has nothing to do with the actual snake bite?" Lestrade inquires to me like it is the strangest, most improbable situation ever. Of course not! Why would it be strange?

I shrug my shoulders at him before putting my coffee on top of the table. He shakes his head at me before an incredulous half-smile comes on his face as he scoffs at me. I ignore him, checking the text I've received from Sherlock before.

_**This better not be a waste of my time, Wilder. –SH**_

A smirk shows on my face. He's coming. So far, I think Lestrade isn't looking between the lines right now. I'm trying to look between the lines, and this just doesn't add up to me. After what I have seen from Julia Stoner's room, meeting her sister and her step-father, I can tell that what Lestrade is telling me isn't true. There is something missing, I know there is, but what? Nothing is adding up. If Lestrade gives me a clear understanding of how the snake has gotten into a house coincidentally and biting her and then leaving undetected, I will get a plane ticket for him and make him go somewhere on holiday.

Sherlock Holmes may see where I am coming from, and personally, for the first time, I am not going to be annoyed by his presence. I am actually excited to see what he thinks of this.

"What are you smirking about, Wilder?" Lestrade asks me curiously as I text him back, my smirk feeling as though it has grown bigger.

_**You weren't doing anything anyway. But, trust me, Holmes, you're time wouldn't be wasted ;) –MW**_

I don't feel like giving him a clear answer. I just retort, "What do _you_ think?"

"You got him to come?" Lestrade says, sounding almost shocked. A moment later, I receive a text from Sherlock. I glance over at Lestrade to nod my head before opening it. I catch a glimpse of Molly actually revealing a small smile at the question before it quickly disappears. "How?"

"I convinced him." I tell him simply before I open the new text from him. It actually only took a sentence to convince him.

_**You mean your*, and don't ever do this ;). It makes you look like an idiot. –SH**_

Just to get under his skin, I text back, _**;) –MW**_

To which, I do not receive anything back.

* * *

Soon, we are all in the morgue. Molly is standing near me as I am sitting in the corner with my cup of coffee in my hand. Lestrade is by the door, him thinking that this is a waste of his time and thinking that this case is already to be closed. I try to keep my smile to myself as I watch Sherlock examining the body we have found the other day, his light blue-green eyes searching her body for anything interesting. John is looking over the body too, his eyes catching the series of spots on top of the girl. Sherlock has his magnifying glass and is using it. "So, what do you—?" I start to ask, but Sherlock's voice actually cuts me off.

"Do people actually _read_ your blog?" Sherlock asks. My face falls off and I look between John and Sherlock. Blog? What in the world is he talking about? I share a look with Molly, who doesn't seem as confused as me, before I look back at them.

He is talking to John though. John mutters back to him, "Where do our clients come from?"

"I have a website." Sherlock states to him, making me roll my eyes. No one, well, very few can even understand Sherlock's website. Assuming they are talking about John's blog, every twit who comes across it will understand it a lot better.

John retorts, still observing the girl's small spots, "In which you numerate 240 different types of tobacco, I should think no one is reading your website." I nearly choke on my coffee before spitting it back in the cup. My eyes look up to see Sherlock now not looking at the body at all. His eyes are now looking straight at John as he straightens his back. "All right!" John says, clapping his hands. Sherlock still is looking at John; he actually seems hurt by John's words.

My eyes go between Sherlock and John. John doesn't even notice how Sherlock is looking at him. He states what he believes, "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death, except for these speckles." John points at a few of them before his eyes meet mine. Lestrade moves slightly away from the door, fully attentive now. "Whatever they are," he adds to us before he finally looks up at Sherlock. I glance over at Molly, who is watching this quite eagerly (but also worriedly) before I look back. "Wha—?"

And before John could even ask what is wrong, Sherlock turns around with his long jacket billowing behind him and walks out of the morgue. My eyes actually widen almost in shock as everyone watches the door to the morgue swing shut, Sherlock disappearing behind it. John and Lestrade stare after it. Molly awkwardly looks down at her own cup of coffee and I slowly take a sip out of mine. "Did I say something wrong?" John asks all of us, but he looks directly at me with his brow furrowed.

He didn't notice Sherlock's face? No, I just think, maybe, he doesn't understand why Sherlock's face actually seemed hurt by the comment. And why exactly does he look straight at me? I shrug my shoulders, "I think you may have offended him."

"_I_ have offended him?" John asks me. I guess it does sound pretty strange that it is Sherlock offended this time around. I nod my head slowly before I shrug my shoulders again. John almost seems like he is at a loss with what to do. It's safe for me to presume, I guess, that this doesn't happen often. John looks up at the ceiling as if asking it what to do. There is a silence that surrounds the four of us as of right now. "Maybe I should… go talk to him?" John says to me, sounding unsure.

I shake my head no, letting my feet be controlled by a force I am barely aware of. "No, you stay where you are, John. Look the body over, I'll get Sherlock." The words come out of my mouth so quickly that I could barely stop them, just like my feet.

"Are you sure?" John asks me with his eyebrow raised. I find myself muttering a yes before following where Sherlock has left. I can feel Lestrade's and John's eyes following me as I near the door.

When the door swings behind me, I look down the hallway, the quiet, lonesome hallway before I see Sherlock sitting on the furthest bench from the morgue. I allow a smile to show before I walk down the hallway to see him. Sherlock barely even looks up at me as I decide to sit down next to him. I lean back, crossing my legs over one another, and look over at him. He has a stoic expression on his narrow face and is staring at the wall.

I don't say anything, he doesn't say anything, and for some reason, I am perfectly content with it. But soon I break the silence, "You are such a child." Sherlock doesn't reply to me. I actually add, "Just because someone insults your site, does not mean that you are allowed to walk out like you're five years old."

"I don't get it," is all he replies to me, giving me a brief glance.

"Don't get what?" Sherlock likes to elaborate himself, why isn't he elaborating on what he means right now?

"My website shows the actual _science_ of what I do, it is not to be romanticized like _he_ is making it to be," Sherlock starts to me. I cross my arms over my chest and turn my head, biting my bottom lip. "His blog is making it seem like one big adventure. His titles to each entry are so simply put and he goes on saying 'and then we went here and then we went there'. It is _appalling_. He makes me sound like a character from a children's book rather than an actual person. He doesn't even show how I work it out!"

"Sherlock, not everyone understands what in the world is going through your head when you solve a case." I tell him honestly.

"People are so simple-minded." He says to me, sound exasperated. I tilt my head to listen to what this man has to say. "They don't _think_, they don't _understand._"

"Are you really that upset that people prefer John's blog over your website?" Sherlock narrows his eyes and glares over at me. I take a deep breath, why did I choose to come out here? Why didn't John come out instead of me? _Because I just had to open my big mouth,_ a voice answers. "John has a point, the people who are your clients read _his_ blog, if they understood what you did, how you did it… that will… take away the mystery of it." _What in the world are you going on about? _Sherlock's glare softens, making me assume that means I'm going on the right track.

I go on, "It's like… you're a… magician,"_ Seriously, what in the bloody hell? _I ignore the voice in my head, "if everyone knows your secrets, then they wouldn't think you're bloody brilliant with what you do because they know what you do already." I ruined it. That was an awful, awful analogy. A magician? Really? That's what I thought to compare him too.

"A magician?" Sherlock repeats. The analogy, though is awful, wouldn't have worked anyway. He's far too literal. "I am a _consulting detective_, I am not a _magician. _What I do doesn't involve illusions, it involves _observing_."

"I know," I shake my head, close my eyes, and admit again, "I know, that was just a really _bad_ analogy. I'm not usually good at this sort of thing."

"Who was the one that sent you out to fetch me?" Sherlock asks me, with his brow furrowed. At least the hurt expression is off of his face, him pouting (although it was slightly cute), is an image that I would like out of my head.

I chuckle softly and say to him, "I actually came out voluntarily. John was going to, but I told him to keep looking at the body."

"You… came out voluntarily? _Why_?" For someone so smart, he is actually asking me why I had come out. But… honestly… I don't even know why myself, but I figured that he would be able to figure it out.

My face falls. Wow, why did I really come out here? I thought in there he was acting like a child, being over-dramatic and yet _I_, _me_, came out here to actually bring him back instead of letting John do it. I sit back and slump my shoulders, confused, starting to stare in front of me. I can still feel Sherlock's blue-green eyes staring at me, waiting for me to answer. Then I come up with a realization. I glance over at Sherlock briefly before looking forward again. When I left the morgue, I actually felt like I was _obligated _to. Obligated? Like I actually had to come out here to bring him back. Just like John wanted to do, go out and bring him back.

John is Sherlock's friend. This will mean that… we are past being acquaintances. I eventually tell him, "I think it's because I'm your friend."

"Friend?" Sherlock asks me incredulously, as if the idea of having me as a friend is repulsive.

"I believe that makes two in your collection."

"You consider _me_ as a friend?" Sherlock asks me again.

I look at him curiously before stating, "And you don't?"

"More of a _colleague_ than a friend." Sherlock admits to her.

"Colleague, friend, same thing." I reply to him, looking him up and down before I turn my head to look straight ahead. Sherlock doesn't say anything after, but I hear him mutter something that is more to himself rather than me. I let it go instead of bringing it up. I do ask him, "So… what do you think about the body? The cause of death?"

"Obviously the spots are a effect of the unknown poison you've mentioned in the blood stream." Sherlock starts, digging his hands in his pockets. "There is no entry marks, so she wasn't injected with anything and she has no known allergies."

"Did you see the snake bites on her ankle?" I ask him curiously, raising my eyebrow. He hasn't mentioned those to me yet. Sherlock glances over to me, his brow furrows. "Molly found snake bites on her ankle and her and Lestrade think that those are the cause of death."

I can see that Sherlock is absorbing that information, taking it in. His eyes go to the floor for a moment as he calculates in his head a new scenario. "Describe the type of house to me, did it look like a house that would have snakes around?"

"No, it was pristine. Really neat, she looked like the type that would get grossed out by snakes rather than keep them around." I tell him honestly. Julia Stoner was not, would have never been the type of person to even keep one. "There was also no cages or no food around the house that would be for a snake."

"What about her family members? Any of them seem the type?"

"Her step-father wouldn't have the time and her sister seems to be like her. They all lived together. She has a fiancé we have never met, but we've talked to him through the phone and he has a good alibi. We aren't sure if he kept snakes because we just found the bites a little after I texted you."

Silence, Sherlock still looks as though he is calculating something logical, but there isn't enough information for him to gather. "Do you think it's an accident?" I ask him softly. All I want to hear is him say what I think. I know there is something that is not adding up with the bites and the speckles. If you really observe, it's plain to see. Sherlock look over at me, my eyes are then locked with his blue-green eyes. I _cannot_ get over those eyes. I don't understand how they even exist. In the blue-green abyss, I could see that he is making his speculations.

Soon, I see the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch up into a smirk before he looks away. "I see why you wanted me here so badly." He murmurs, his voice quiet. I swallow before I purse my lips. "You wanted me to give my opinion so you can prove a point to Lestrade."

"What gives you that–?"

He cuts me off, "It's obvious. The tension in that room is so thick, you can barely even walk in it. The way you glared over at Lestrade time to time didn't go unnoticed and how uncomfortable Molly looked standing in the morgue with the both of you. Lestrade barely even looked at you. It is clear that you both had a disagreement before I arrived and it's clear that it's about this case.

"Okay… you got me there." I tell him slowly, leaning back on the bench and looking forward. "It was my idea to text you, not Lestrade. Lestrade thinks that this is an accident, I, however, do not."

"Well, anyone who looks at those bites would think that this is the cause of a snake, you don't?" Sherlock inquires to me curiously, but I can still feel his eyes looking at me and I don't really hear an incredulous tone… it sounds like this amuses him.

"I think the victim would have been in immense pain and someone would have heard her. To be honest, I don't think the poison and the snake are related at all." I haven't noticed until then that Sherlock's smirk actually grew. I furrow my brow at him and go on, "Those… those speckles were not there before she went to bed, so that would mean a snake would have slithered its way in the house and then out of the house with no one noticing… why are you smirking at me like that?"

Sherlock locks me again in a certain gaze and I take the moment to let my eyes scan his face to see if I can find the reason. "You are deducting."

"I'm paid to do that." I say to him, almost astonished that I actually heard him sounding impressed.

"But… it actually sounds logical, like you actually put some thought into what you were saying."

I breathe out slowly at the sound of that. "Is that really that surprising?" I ask him, sounding exasperated.

"Nowadays, yes, Scotland Yard usually hires the most useless of detectives and for once they hired somebody who seems like she has a slippery handle of what she is doing." Sherlock admits to me. Was that a compliment? It sounded like one, but when someone uses slippery in the sentence that kind of throws it off.

"I'm sorry," I start to him, shaking my head as I look away from him. "Was slippery supposed to be in that compliment?"

"You still called me." Sherlock answers me. I cannot control my eyes from rolling. I cross my arms over my chest as he goes on. "And you've called me because you know that something doesn't fit, but you can't figure out what. Lestrade isn't likely to see it, you are having difficulty to, and Donovan is busy having herself an affair with Anderson to really care."

"That's not very nice," I nearly scowl at him for mentioning Donovan. Donovan now is a friend of mine after her apology to me. We actually have had a lovely conversation together on the way to my flat and I have even have gotten to know her better over a cup of tea that I _made_ in my flat. Apparently, I should never be making tea because I am not the best and the fact that I even made her a cup is shocking because tea sometimes makes me nauseous. Even the smell of it makes my stomach turn.

He ignores me as he goes on to say, "You needed another pair of eyes that can see what you can see, which is why you called me."

"I texted you. I would never waste my time having a phoned conversation with you, texting is a lot more faster."

"Indeed, but you still phoned me to prove a point to Lestrade." Sherlock states to me knowingly. I glance over at him, waiting for a smart retort to bubble up in my throat, but I have none, since that is true. "But, though I think it's strange just like you do with the snake bites, you have to admit that they do have something to do with the girl's death."

"If you say so." I mutter to him before I say, "But I think that is what we are supposed to think. The poison isn't known, if its snake venom we would've gotten the toxin in the test results. But nothing came up."

"So you are thinking that those bites are placed there to throw us off of the actual cause?" Sherlock asks me curiously. I open my mouth to answer the question, but he knows it without me having to say it. Before I can speak up, he murmurs, "Interesting… I'm going to have to see the house and meet whoever is inside of it, and are we going to be meeting the fiancé any time soon?"

"I have his number, I can call him to tell him that he will have to be interviewed in person and see if we can meet him in his home."

"If he really doesn't have anything to do with this he should be more than happy to cooperate." Sherlock states before rising up from the bench, I follow suit, brushing down my clothes. Our talk must have ended. "Call him now, I'll get Jo—."

"Sherlock!" We both turn away from each other in the direction of the morgue. John comes out of it with his phone in hand. He glances down at it several times before he comes over to us. I give him a small smile as he approaches us, Sherlock's face doesn't change. It stays with a lack of emotion. I pull out my phone as John's footsteps come closer to us. "I've found something that should help us with the case."

"I know about the snake bites, John." Sherlock states in his baritone voice, holding little to no emotion at all. I carefully glance at him before I begin to dial Percy Armitage's number. This man… I swear… he sounds like a five year old at times who doesn't get what he wants. I thought I have talked him out of what made him pout like a child. "Meredith was kind enough to tell me." Meredith? That is so nice, he actually didn't call me by my fictional last name. It's strange hearing it from him.

"Oh… okay, well I thought that we should check the local zoos to see if there are any snakes that have gone missing." John says to Sherlock.

"You can do that." Sherlock states shortly before flashing me a glance that either says call the number or something entirely different. I have no intentions on actually ringing the fiancé right now. I'm far too interested in this. When Sherlock turns back to face John, he says, "However, like my _colleague_," he emphasizes the word colleague far too much, "I think that would be a waste of time."

John looks between the two of us. I think he gets the hint that I am actually the colleague in question. He asks the both of us, "You two… don't think this is an accident?"

"We think it is a murder." I answer the question before Sherlock could.

"The obvious route is that it's an accident, but when you look at the details and think it through, you see that it is murder." Sherlock says a little bit too coldly. "So, while you are looking into the local zoos along with Lestrade, I will be looking into the family along with Wilder."

"Wait, what?" Both John and I say at the same time. We glance at each other uncertain before looking back at Sherlock who seems not phased at all by our confusion. I have never agreed with that! I have never even thought that he would get a sort of idea like that.

"Well, since Meredith and I are on the same mind-set, it would only seem logical that we both go and look into the family for any possible motives and connections to the homicide. You and Lestrade are most likely convinced this is the doing of an accident, though it is highly unlikely that a snake could slither inside a house and outside without being noticed by the others." Sherlock explains, but somehow I could barely wrap my head around this situation. He is ditching John to go with me and look into this. This is mostly due to the fact that John said something about Sherlock's website instead of praising it like Sherlock thought he should.

Meanwhile, John was actually telling the truth and that no one, except for one or two people maybe, _likes_ Sherlock's website. This would also make the tension between Lestrade and I even greater. I can't even think of a way to get out of this because I know I would just be dragged right into it. John does seem to be taken aback with this, just like this takes me aback, however, I see him reluctantly nod at the idea.

John then states, "Fine… fine then, Lestrade and I will check into the local zoos while you… and Mere will check into the family. But we will meet at the end of today to exchange what we find."

"Oh… we might, we might not. A girl is murdered, there is hardly time to do that sort of—."

"We'll meet at 221b." I cut Sherlock off, knowing that his grudge is taking over his words just a bit. I feel Sherlock's glare at the side of my head. "And we will all have a nice, late lunch with each other and discuss what we have found, won't we, Sherlock?"

"I don't eat during a case." Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing at me. I tilt my head at him and nearly huff at the comment. That is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard. But, hell, I kind of do believe it. Sherlock is so lean that the coat sometimes doesn't fit him right, especially when we have had our last case. Sherlock's frame thinned out from the first time we have met in the airport parking lot. "Digestion slows me down."

"And just having caffeine with nothing to really back it up will help you?" I retort back to him. He doesn't reply to me. But I do say, "If that's the case then, Sherlock, we will eat and discuss while you just watch us eat until you decide to join us. Is that a good idea, John?" I turn my head to him and he almost seems like he wasn't paying attention to us in that moment.

He's brought out of whatever kept him quiet for a minute once I've said his name. He nods his head though and without really know what I have asked him, he replies, "Yes."

"Good then. So, I will phone you and Lestrade when we're done. Ready?" I look over at Sherlock, who already seems like I've unnerved him. What, already? I didn't even say anything annoying last time I checked. Sherlock nods his goodbye to John before he nods to me to go. I smile at John before I turn on my heel, walking with Sherlock to leave St. Bart's.

"Call the fiancé now and all of her other family." Sherlock tells me, not even looking over at me.

"Will do, Holmes." Then, with that, I dial the fiancé number that I've saved in my phone and wait for him to pick it up. I glance over at him as the phone on Percy's end rings and once I hear a deep voice on the other end, I say, "Hello, Percy. This is Detective Wilder calling. A colleague and I are heading over to your flat right now to have a word. Is it convenient right now?"

"It doesn't matter if it's convenient." Sherlock mutters, I pretend to have not heard it. Sherlock opens the door to the stairs, but doesn't hold it open for me. I dodge it as it quickly closes, almost hitting me in the face while doing so. This is going to be an interesting day.

But when is a day spent with Sherlock not an interesting one?

* * *

_I feel like I didn't write Sherlock in this chapter right at all. Maybe because I haven't been writing him for a bit? If you see something wrong though, like if he is OOC, please let me know. Like I felt at some points he was, but other points he wasn't. I don't know, maybe it's just me._

_Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! Don't know when the next update will be, but hopefully it will be soon! I am have to start getting ready for my first year at college! AHHH! I can just feel the anxiety already and I didn't even start the book assignment they gave me (It's an autobiography. If anyone wants to do it for me, I'll honestly pay you)._

_See you next time!  
__~Tiana_


	11. Percy Armitage & Dead Ends

_**Hello everyone! I'm so, so, so, so sorry about the lateness of this update. I just moved into college and am still settling in. But I tried to make time to finish the chapter before my classes would start! Hope you enjoy! :)**_

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Percy Armitage and Dead Ends**

"Mr. Armitage, we have spoken over the phone." I start to him, bowing my head slightly at Percy Armitage, Julia Stoner's fiancé. He isn't what I have expected. Julia is… well, _was_, a beautiful woman and she could have done better than this man. Percy has dark brown hair, untidy and sticking up. It looks like he has just rolled out of bed. He also is a little beardy, but the length of it isn't long. He isn't completely ugly; he does have a nice pair of brown eyes hidden behind his glasses. Maybe that is what attracted Julia to her fiancé. "I'm Detective Meredith Wilder and this is my colleague," I look over to where I think Sherlock is, "Sherlock…"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock says, coming to the other side of me. Percy actually goes to shake Sherlock's hand, but drops it, realizing that Sherlock isn't likely to shake it.

"Are you an offi—?" Percy begins to say, only to be cut off.

Sherlock interrupts him, "I am a consulting detective." I shoot him a look before looking back at Percy. Why did I agree with going with _him_? Already I want to grab a gun to shot him with. He said that with such an arrogant tone.

"What's that?"

Before Sherlock can even answer, I do so we can get this over with. "Someone we use to assist us on cases such as this one. Now, Mr. Arm—."

"On the phone, I've been told that this was an accident." Percy says, interrupting me before I can explain to him why we are here. I glance over at Sherlock who is peering down at the sitting down Percy, who is now slouching in our presence. Just by the way Sherlock's eyes seemed to have brightened, I can tell that he noted something about Percy. He doesn't voice it though. "Why are the police investigating an allergic reaction?"

Sherlock takes the pleasure in answering the question, "We have reason to think that this is not an allergic reaction. She didn't have any known reactions to any allergies according to her family and an unknown poison somehow made it into her bloodstream."

Percy questions immediately, his face contorting with confusion, "Poison?"

"Yes, poison and besides the snake bite on her ankle, there are no other ways the poison couldn't have gone through her unless it was an indirect way."

"Snake? Julia wouldn't have stepped inside the same room with a snake," Percy says to us slowly. His eyes go from Sherlock and I. I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at Percy. I expected Sherlock to interject, and I think Percy does too because of his long pause, but he doesn't. I glance over at Sherlock, whose blue-green eyes are momentarily scanning the man's flat, taking in what he can. I am wondering if he is even listening to him. "She always makes… made," he corrects himself, "me hide them whenever she came, they always bother her, you see. She thinks they are the grossest things next to spiders."

"You keep snakes?" I ask him with my eyebrow raised.

"Of course, he does. Look at him, look at this flat," Sherlock starts to me, completely ignoring the bewildered look coming on his face. I glance over at him as Sherlock begins to talk as if Percy is no longer sitting with us. Sherlock begins making deductions to me, "It smells like he keeps some sort of animals in here and it also smells of the food he must keep for them," he sniffs the air again before walking away from us to explain his observations, "Besides that, he keeps a lot science fiction lying about, magazines and movies. He even has a poster of Star Trek hanging in his bedroom."

"How'd you—?"

"Simple, your door is opened. It isn't exactly hard to glance in there and see a part of that poster on the wall." Sherlock states easily, cutting him off as he turns away from the both of us. "I'm assuming that you keep the snakes in your bedroom, too, correct?" Without an answer, he goes off to check if he is right. I try not to look at Percy or in the direction Sherlock has gone for that matter. I honestly am surprised that a man who doesn't know that the Earth goes around the sun knows what Star Trek actually is.

I barely know what to do, but what I think I am supposed to do is look over at Percy and apologize for this. Percy almost looks like a gaping codfish. "I'm sorry about him, he's usually like that."

"He works with you guys?" Percy asks me, his eyes back and forth from where Sherlock has went to where I am. I nod my head slowly, "And he has figured out I have snakes just by looking around the flat?"

I explain to Percy rather slowly as I take a seat on top of the chair. "He is… very observant and he is really good at what he does." I almost cringe admitting it to the man, but it's true. What Sherlock does is bloody brilliant, and I am happy that he isn't around to hear it. Sherlock's head inflates when someone gives him praise. "Now, Mr. Armitage, I am deeply sorry for your fiancé's death and we will do whatever we can to get to the bottom of it."

Unlike his used-to-be-father-in-law, he nods his head graciously. "We would though like if you would answer a few of our questions, if that's all right."

"It's—it is all right."

"Okay, perfect," I give him a slight thumbs up before I go ahead to ask, "The night Julia died, where were you?"

"I have given my statement to the police, detective." He tells me. I don't change the question. I just want to see if he keeps up with the same story. Sometimes, and there is a small chance that this would happen, people would try to change their alibi without even realizing it. I've learned this on my second case with Carter. The suspect has given us his alibi that almost seemed strong, but when I asked it again, some details were changed like the time he had left the bar, who he was with at the bar, the drinks he bought, small details.

Percy takes a deep sigh, realizing that this subject will most likely not be changed. He says the alibi to me again, "Julia and I have gotten into a fight about the wedding, she got so stressed easily about it. We had plans together that night, and, well… obviously that got cancelled. And I went with the guys to the pub by King's Cross… St. Chad's Place." I love that place. It is actually where I met… never mind. I tilt my head up, acknowledging what he said. It seems like it matched with the statement he gave.

"Anyone can confirm that? One of the guys or a bartender?"

"I went with one of my mates, who is out of the city as of now. I'll write down the other mate's number for you before you leave." Percy tells me. I like this full cooperation thing, it is refreshing… sort of. "And the bartender that was working that night's name is Megan… I believe. I remember her having brown hair, if that helps."

"It does, thank you, Mr. Armitage." I say to him nodding my head. "You're cooperating splendidly."

"Do you think that one of your snakes might have found themselves in your fiancé's room?" Sherlock inquires to Percy as he walks back into the sitting room. I glance over at him to see that he has rubber gloves on instead of his usual leather ones. He must have snuck a pair in his pocket. But what was he touching in there?

"That's impossible," Percy tells him immediately. The small, sad smile on his face disappears and I try not to look at Sherlock. "I told you, she wouldn't step within ten inches of one. She bloody hell wouldn't let me bring one to her house."

"Well, you do keep snakes that aren't exactly found in a garden. You have a poisonous snake in your bedroom." Sherlock states simply to him and I awkwardly rub my chin. Besides his alibi, this doesn't look too good for Percy.

"So, what are you implying, Mr. Holmes?" Percy nearly shouts, sounding offended. It is almost like he is like me. We can both hear the assumption or the deduction Sherlock has gathered. This could go in one of two ways, and I'm debating to just grab Sherlock by the hand to get out of this flat. We know all we need to know.

Sherlock doesn't skip a beat in answering that. He gets a strange smirk on his face before pulling the rubber gloves off of his hands. I think that is my cue to pull him out of here, but I don't, I almost don't want to at all. Is this how John feels with Sherlock while out on cases? I have worked with him extensively before, but never have I brought him to a suspect's house to ask questions. Once I begin to open my mouth, he shakes his head, pushing his rubber gloves in his long coat's pocket and slipping on his leather ones. "Nothing at all."

"Sherlock—what?" 'Nothing at all?' He merely glances at me, there is an equally strange glimmer in his eyes and it scares the hell out of me. I don't know what is going through that head of his as of the moment. This is the first time he most likely has deduced something and doesn't voice it out loud; at least he doesn't around me.

"I think we know all we need to know here." Sherlock says a moment later. "Meredith?" I open my mouth to still question this before I see Sherlock turn on his heel to actually leave the flat.

"I didn't finish asking my questions yet." I try to tell him, looking behind my shoulder. Sherlock stops in his place before turning his head to look at me. I could see a bored expression already consuming his face. We are both looking at each other, eyes locked, it's almost as if I've caught him in a staring contest. We've only been here for at least three minutes. I am not planning on leaving just yet.

Finally, I hear an exasperated sigh come from him. I turn back to Percy, taking that as a sign that I won. "Do you know anyone that would have murdered your fiancé?" Percy stares at me, I can just tell that it is almost too unbelievable that someone would have murdered her. He shakes his head no to me, honestly. I'm right, or I at least think I am right, when I say that Julia seems like a sweet girl. I hardly doubt that she could do something to someone else that results in murder. But… I also know that someone _did_.

I swallow before standing up, glancing behind my shoulder to see Sherlock inching toward the door. I hold my hand out for Percy to give it a good shake.

"Pleasure meeting you in person, Mr. Armitage." I tell him, as he reluctantly grips at my hand to shake it. He grips it almost painfully tight for some reason before letting me go. I hear the door open and then I turn on my heel to leave Percy behind. Unlike the last time I went somewhere with Sherlock for a case, he holds out the door for me, waiting for me and looking impatiently down the hall.

He closes the door behind me and once he does, he tells me, "He's involved somehow."

"He has an alibi though." I state to him, now walking. Sherlock doesn't look over at me, not even giving me a glance. I try to say, "I don't think he has motive, to be honest."

"Just because the man has an alibi does not mean that he can't be involved, Meredith." Sherlock states to me, before adding, "And you ask about motive? He has the prime motive; no one has any reason to kill her, but him. They had a row, he said, before he went out, but he still had time to—."

"To plant a snake in her room, yes I know. But all we have connecting him is the snake bites, that isn't enough to arrest him, Sherlock." I interrupt him with that. Though, I have a nagging doubt that Percy is involved somehow. There's more that we are missing.

Sherlock doesn't speak to me after that, his brow furrowing like he is in deep concentration over what I just said. He says after his short pause, "You're right, it just doesn't seem to add up. But I doubt that it is a coincidence that her fiancé owns snakes, one of them being poisonous, when we found poison in her system and snake bites." I nod my head stiffly before stopping in front of an elevator. I pull out my phone and dial the number to her family.

* * *

While we discussed what happened in both our separate investigations over lunch, we have all come to the conclusion that something didn't sound right. John stated to us both that no snakes were missing the night before while Sherlock and I, or rather I, told John and Lestrade about the visit to Armitage and her family. Her stepfather was already making arrangements for when we are done with the body, so we really only talked with her sister, Helen. Surprisingly, she was more than willing to help us, explaining Julia's night to both Sherlock and I.

I listened intently to her while Sherlock went to see Julia's pristine room. And then I told Helen that she could always contact me if she needed me and she said she would. The case, though, is going extremely slow. I've been to 221b for the past three days and every time I've been there, it's been the same. Sherlock is almost baffled, he knows that Percy is involved and as I am beginning to think everything through, I begin to believe that Percy is involved. The only link that we all connected with him is the bite marks… and that isn't enough evidence.

Today, I sit there again at 221b, sipping a cup of coffee and watching Sherlock pluck the strings of his violin, which I must have watched dozen times already. My eyes are stuck on his long fingers, making small movements with the strings. His hands remind me of my grandfather handling his old violin. They both handled it with such care, like fragility of the instrument was so sacred to them both. "Explain her day to me again." Sherlock orders of me, taking me out of a stupor that I didn't know I was in until now. I look up at him to see him staring blankly in front of him.

Instead of me answering, John does, coming down from his bedroom upstairs. "Her and her fiancé have a row, crossed she goes drinking with her friends, and then comes homes around 2 in the morning, takes a bath, and goes to bed."

"And at some point in that night, she got herself bitten by a snake, covered with speckles, and dead." I add on, taking yet another sip of my coffee.

John looks at me strangely, sitting down at his desk, with his laptop opened already. "Are you alright, Mere? You sound a bit…"

"Sound a bit what?" I ask him while he takes a short pause. My head practically splits at the sound of my own voice. A splitting headache is always so nice to have in the morning. John raises his brow at my sharp tone, glancing over at the screen of his laptop, before looking back at me. Unfortunately, the coffee isn't helping me with my headache at all.

Before he continues with what he would say, Sherlock cuts through, ignoring our present conversation, "At some point, she was poisoned. It doesn't make sense. What's the fiancé's night?"

"He had a row with Julia, went out to St. Chad's with a few of his mates, then went home. It's also a solid alibi, I checked with his friend and the bartender he described to me." I answer him. John looks between the two of us before his eyes go to Sherlock with his violin.

"That doesn't bother you?" He asks me, almost sounding bewildered by it. Obviously John isn't a fan of Sherlock's violin. He plays the violin while he thinks and Sherlock thinks all night, especially if he is on a case. I shake my head no though, if I lived here though I think I would've been tired of it. I have spent weekends though when my grandfather played at all hours of the night.

"They had the row at 6:00, Percy's flat is at least ten minutes away by cab, he went to the pub at 6:30, that is not enough window to go to his flat, grab a snake, plant it and then go to the pub." Sherlock states, plucking his final string with such irritation. It actually makes me flinch. "He _is_ involved, just not directly."

"You both still think that this is not an accident?" John asks us both, clicking to his blog almost immediately after.

"All the evidence leads to the contrary." Sherlock says shortly, his eyes going to a spot on the floor.

"The only evidence that we have is those snake bites."

"Well, there _has_ to be something else." Sherlock states, rising up from his chair to walk over to the window overlooking Baker Street. It's only silence between all of us; my eyes are glancing back and forth from Sherlock to John. I hold the cup of coffee extremely close to my mouth, allowing the steam to reach my nostrils. I hear mumbles come from Sherlock, incoherent mumbles.

"Are you alright?" John asks me. I look over at him and shrug my shoulders, not in the mood to give a clear answer. John stares at me for a moment, almost like he is considering me, but then instead of responding, my phone rings.

Once I hear my obnoxious Michael Jackson ringtone from my phone, I pick it up quickly. Sherlock doesn't even turn his head at the sound of thriller while John does raise his brow at me. I usually keep my phone on vibrate around other people. "Wilder," I answer curtly, carefully maneuvering my cup of coffee and my phone. I bring my knees to my chest, hold the cup of coffee again with both hands, and tilt my head to balance the phone on top of my shoulder.

"Detective?" I hear a small voice at the end, and I furrow my brow at it. "This is Helen Stoner. You told me that I could give you a ring whenever I needed it."

"Yeah, yeah I did… what's the matter, Ms. Stoner? Everything alright?" The moment I mentioned Stoner, Sherlock turns his head with his eyebrow raised considerably high. His finger is bent at his mouth and his eyes find mine as I look up at him. It is almost like I see the gears in his head already working as I am speaking to her. I try to look away from him, the more I look at him, the more curious I get.

"No, no, everything is _not_ alright." She tells me. Unconsciously, I lick my bottom lip before I bring my coffee slowly to my mouth. "I've been feeling tired a lot lately, _really _tired, and I don't know, it makes me worried."

"That is perfectly normal during grieving, Helen." I say to her softly to reassure her. Some people have so much grief that it makes them disoriented. There are different ways to get over grief. Some people eat while others sleep, or some people even do some things that they would never think they would do. "It's nothing to be worried about."

"It is not that kind of tired. I have been getting more and more tired for weeks." Helen informs me. My brow creases deeply in concern. Julia died a few days ago, not a few weeks ago. "It's been bothersome, and before Julia… died… she acted the same way."

"What do you mean she felt the same way?" I ask her quickly. I could have sworn that I heard my voice rise in volume just how strange and alarming that sounds. What does she mean that Julia felt the same before she died?

"She complained to me all the time about how tired she is… _was_." Helen corrects herself, making me almost frown. "I've… I've just never paid mind to it."

"He—." My phone is snatched out from under me. My head goes up in a jolt and I look up to see Sherlock putting it to his ear. My mouth parts and I can feel myself beginning to scowl at him.

"Helen, this is Sherlock." He says while I stare at him in disbelief. Did he really just take the phone out of my hand like it isn't mine? "We're going to need to spend the night in your sister's room to relive her last moments." He walks a little bit away from me. All I hear from my phone is a muffled voice that is pressed against his ear. I narrow my eyes at Sherlock, before prompting myself to get up to get the phone from him. But before she could, Sherlock hangs up the phone and throws it in my general direction. I try not to make a scene and dive for it, so I quickly place my coffee to the side and lean slightly forward in just enough time to actually catch it with one hand.

I put it on top of the armrest. "What the bloody hell was that?"

"Do shut up." Sherlock says to me quickly, before looking at both John and I. John has a bewildered look in his eyes, as if he is questioning Sherlock's behavior just as much as I am. "John, I'm going to need you tonight." He says to him, completely ignoring my existence. John looks up at Sherlock, he has a sort of exasperated look on his face. I honestly don't think it mattered if John tells Sherlock that he is busy or something. Sherlock drags John everywhere even if he does have plans. "You are going to have to spend the night with me in Julia's bedroom so we can relive her night together."

"I'm sorry?" John asks, as if he hasn't heard correctly. I don't think I heard that correctly either. "You and I… spend the night… in the same bedroom?"

"Yes." Sherlock replies, sensing no problem at all with this. I try not to snigger at this.

"Where…" John clears his throat, his voice sounding hoarse. He then gulps before continuing his question, "where are we going… to sleep?"

I joke, "I think Sherlock sleeps on the right side of the bed, he likes to be dominant in a lot of things." John sends a glare in my direction, a glare that probably means 'I'm not gay'. Sherlock doesn't say a word to me however. "Well, am I invited to this slumber party? Or are we just going to forget the working detective on this case?"

Sherlock looks over at me, his head turning sharply in my general direction. I just shrug my shoulders innocently.

* * *

_**I'm not too happy with how I ended this chapter, but I couldn't, well I don't think I could anyway, end it in any other way, you know? It seems fillerish to me. Okay, so I don't know when I will update again, considering classes begin tomorrow. But I will be updating Facebook about the progress of stories, every story, and my tumblr page (my writing blog!)**_

_**If you haven't yet heard of that, my writing blog really is me ranting about a fanfiction writer's struggles and I now post sneak peeks on there instead of Facebook (this is because every time I do a sneak peek on my fb page, all the words somehow get cluttered up, it's easier on tumblr). The tumblr page also has character bios and there is a story status page (under future and current story plans) that is updated everyday (well… starting tonight it will be updated everyday). So… if you want to… you can follow it! The link to it is on my profile.**_

_**Okay, now I'm exhausted and have a big day of classes tomorrow. I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and don't forget to leave a review! :)**_


	12. Heavens to Betsy!

_**My original plan was to post this on Friday but I didn't expect to finish this chapter today. I suppose it is for the better, I mean, I do have assignments due on Friday that I have put off, so might as well finish it, eh? Thank you to everyone for the amazing response I have received these last couple of weeks! I want to apologize for the lateness of this chapter, and I won't waste your time reading with excuses. Enjoy!**_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Heavens to Betsy!**

"It's lovely to see you, Helen." I shake the hand of the sister upon entering the house. Helen has a small smile on her face, but it is still too soon for the smile to be a real and happy one. Her grip on my hand is gentle and I notice how her tired brown eyes have dark circles around the both of them. They are also sunken in like she hasn't slept in days. "If you don't mind me asking, have you been sleeping? You look tired."

She tries to suppress a yawn as she tells me, "I've been doing more than my share of sleeping. I feel so run down and I don't know why. This has been happening for a couple of days now." It doesn't sound right to me at all and before I can even say anything, I have to step aside to allow Sherlock and John to walk inside.

"Hello Helen," John greets her with a small, half-smile.

"John," She acknowledges him with a small nod. John had told me about when they met, saying that it was sort of awkward. I cannot remember why he thought it was awkward, but her demure face, I think, just brightened up a little bit upon seeing the good doctor. She then looks over at Sherlock who has his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Mr. Holmes."

"We are going to need you to take us through Julia's night." Sherlock goes straight to it, wasting no time. I notice now there is a slight smirk on his face as he glances over at John. John doesn't seem to know exactly why the smirk is thrown at him, and I'm trying to figure out why a smirk is being thrown his way. But the rare occurrence disappears as he turns back to Helen. "From the moment she arrived home to the moment she went to bed would be great. We don't need to be going through what she did at the bar if she didn't drink."

"Yes… yes, of course." Helen nods her head at him. I make sure to step aside as Helen gestures us to follow her. Sherlock takes the lead and we all follow behind. My eyes carefully look around as I allow John to go ahead of me. Someone is missing from the house and… it's late at night for a man like Dr. Stoner to not be at home.

I ask Helen curiously, my hand skimming the railing. "Helen, where is your step-father? It's late."

"He had this to-do in his office," Helen answers, now allowing herself to yawn in front of us. I furrow my brow at that, glancing down at the bottom of the stairs.

"Does he know of our little sleepover tonight?" Maybe it's just me, but I think he would still be here. Not really to babysit us, but to just watch over us to see if we are doing the right thing under his roof. Helen glances behind her shoulder to look at me and I notice the slight shake of her head. Why wouldn't she tell him that we were going to be here? It doesn't really matter anyhow, as long as we get what we need.

Helen takes us down the pastel-colored hallway and to the room on the end. I haven't been in Helen's room since the day of the crime scene. When I brought Sherlock here a few days ago, I sat with Helen and her father in the sitting room. We enter the room. Helen stays by the door while I look around it with a slight perk to my brow. Before this, I have never been back to the crime scene without its tape, prompting others to stay away from it. My eyes scan the room as I walk slowly inside, dropping my purse onto the ground.

"I need you to be concise." Sherlock states, holding his hands behind his back as he strolls around the room. His blue eyes are scanning the plush carpeting and he soon looks up at the bed Julia was found in. "Give me her nightly routine, step by step. What did she do when she entered the door? Did she call anyone? Did she have a bite to eat? No detail can really be forgotten."

I hear a sharp breath being taken in behind me before Helen speaks, "She got in that night around two in the morning." I nod my head at that, my eyes seeing the room just as pristine as we had seen it the first day. "We talked a little bit about the fight she had with Percy in my room… she… she stood by the door." I turn my head and to see Helen trying to breathe evenly. I swallow before I walk over there, noticing how she is taking a pause.

My hand goes on her shoulder, making her jump slightly—I guess she didn't expect me. "Keep going," I urge her quietly. "You are doing great so far, and this will be a big help for the case." Helen's large brown eyes look over to me before I see her nod her head. I give her a small smile to encourage her.

John's voice asks her, "Now, what happened after she talked to you? Did she take a shower, go straight to bed?"

"She was tired… she had been tired for weeks." Helen answers John. I drop my hand from her shoulder but stay at her side. I glance over at Sherlock, who leaned back against the dresser. His hand is fisted and he is focusing his eyes blankly in front of him. He has his hand by his mouth as his brow is furrowed in concentration. "She decided… to go to bed after talking to me and I wasn't going to argue with that because she did have a rough day. I suggested that she take a bath, which she did. I think the bath lasted an hour as usual and then she went to sleep."

"You didn't notice anything unusual at all that night?" John asks her, his eyebrow raising. My eyes are still on the quiet Sherlock. He doesn't seem to be listening to what is being said.

Helen says to him, "I know what you are thinking, Dr. Watson, but I know when…" a yawn escapes her. Sherlock finally glances up at me as if he feels that I am staring at him. I look away slightly to look at John who is looking at Helen confused. Helen continues her sentence, "… When something that isn't supposed to be in my house is in my house. My stepfather and I would have notice—.

"You said before that she had been tired for weeks?" Sherlock suddenly interrupts her. Helen looks away from John to look over at him. She nods her head, recalling saying that her sister has been tired for weeks. "Do you know how many weeks ago she started complaining?"

"Two weeks… maybe even three."

"Think about two to three weeks ago, has anything happened that she would have gotten so tired from… two to three weeks ago?" Sherlock then asks her. I look away from him and part my mouth, now trying to wrap this around my head. There is no window for poisoning; the poisoning would have been set for her for days at a time. The snake is hardly any use now. For one thing, when could Percy actually place the snake without being noticed? He also has a rock-solid alibi that I couldn't even find a hole in. Another thing, a snakebite would have caused drowsiness the moment it bit her… not for weeks at a time. And Percy didn't have a motive until the night of his fiancé's murder. It is easy to believe that Percy has committed the murder, but if you look at the details, Percy really has nothing to do with it.

Helen doesn't answer him right away and I see Sherlock's jaw actually clench as he looks away from her. His arms cross over her chest and he looks down at the carpet again. He says to Helen, "You're doing this case no good if you are going to remain silent, you're our only—."

"I'm trying to remember, okay?" Helen nearly snaps at him. Sherlock barely even looks up at her and a sudden feeling of tension cuts through the air. I glance over at her to see her eyebrows pull together in concentration, her mouth is pursed tightly, and she has her arms crossed. Her head is bowed in thought. "Two weeks ago… nothing really strange happened then. Dad brought us some new shampoo his company made, not on the markets yet. Julia got a promotion in her job… and I just always thought that she was tired from that, from her new promotion."

"Your father, did he give you _both_ this new shampoo?" I ask her curiously. A sudden thought occurs to me. I didn't want to say anything or imply anything, but I find… strange, almost. She opens her mouth to answer before we hear footsteps toward the bathroom. I turn my head to see that Sherlock has disappeared out of the room. John is looking questionably toward the bathroom where Sherlock had left and before we know it, he steps out of the room with a bottle in his hand.

"Are you saying that my step-father has anything to do this?" Helen asks me.

I over at her, unsure of how to really respond. She gives me an accusing glare and I am only forced to deny that I am. I shake my head no, "That is just a routine question, Helen. We have to consider all the possibilities."

"So you _are_ implying that my father poisoned my sister?"

"I'm not implying any—."

"Yes, she is," Sherlock states, cutting me off in the middle of my sentence. I look over at him abruptly and see him open the top of the shampoo, giving it a whiff. I wasn't implying anything. her step-father does not have a clear motive for me to imply anything. I don't correct Sherlock, I just watch him with narrowed eyes as he moves the bottle of shampoo away from him. "We are going to need to run some tests on this bottle."

"You can't be serious." Helen says with a shake of her head. "He wouldn't have given us something with poison in it, Mr. Holmes. He has no reason to!" Helen clearly sounds offended by what we think about her stepfather.

John decides to step in, "We are taking it just so we can eliminate it." Thank you, John. He has always been the smarter one, it seems. Sherlock sometimes lacked the empathy to deal with someone whose sister died and whose stepfather is suddenly being accused of poisoning that sister and maybe… her. "We're not saying that anyone did anything." Helen stares at him for a moment, as if she is considering his words.

I turn my head towards her to see that she eventually nods her head to us. "Take it then." With that, she slips out of the room, leaving the three of us inside.

"John, you certainly have a way with words." I tell him with a nod. Before he could reply though, I look over at Sherlock, who is still looking over the back of the shampoo bottle. His eyebrows knit together. "So… what do you think of this?" I inquire to him.

"The stepfather could have made this with poison, given it to them, and is waiting for them to die out. A slow-acting poison, so it could look like it was done naturally or when the time is right, he would be able to frame someone." Sherlock states to me, as if he already has the situation lined out in his head. We are away from the brick wall now.

"You really think that her father would do this?" John asks the both of us. I look down at that. For someone like Dr. Stoner to actually do this, sounds so strange. We don't even know why he would do it. For money, maybe? He has a lot of that already. Maybe he is angry? About what though? It… it just is hard to understand, but if this shampoo bottle has anything to do with the murder of Julia… Stoner is our man. A part of me doesn't want to believe it, but this is the only evidence to go by. "But why though?"

"We aren't entirely sure that this is poison, John." I tell him, glancing over to Sherlock. Sherlock looks over at me incredulously. He knows very well that I know what I just said is not true. There is a huge chance that that bottle contains our murder weapon. "Let's not go straight to conclusions."

"Well, it _is_ the only way to get a poison within her without any wound marks. We know that it's not the snakebites that caused her death. So there is a 99.9 percent chance that this is what caused the death of Ms. Stoner. As _you_ know, Meredith." Sherlock says flatly to us both before pocketing the bottle of shampoo inside his coat. I give him a slight reprimanding look that he chooses to ignore. "We'll just have to get over to St. Bart's and have this tested."

* * *

We all sat around the lab, watching Sherlock begin his tests on the shampoo bottle. My hand is holding up my head and my eyelids begin to fall. My head leans slightly over and it becomes a little heavy for my hand to even hold. "Meredith," John's voice comes to me and I feel his hand on my shoulder. My eyes flutter open to see him looking down at me. The doctor advises me, "Why don't you go home? It's getting late."

I give him a slight smile before I shake my head at that. I straighten my back, roll my shoulders and hear them give a slight crack. "I'm fine. I'd rather stay anyway."

"And I rather you not," John says to me, remaining persistent. I take a deep breath as I resist the urge to actually yawn. "You spent the whole day with us. I don't think you want to spend the whole night, too. You're tired."

I chuckle at him, "I am, but I'd rather stay. Thank you though, John."

"Then in that case, maybe I can get us some coffee." John says, rubbing the back of his head. I nod my head at that and he takes a few steps away from me. He points his finger at me, "Black, right?" I nod my head slowly before I watch him leave the room. I turn my head to watch Sherlock whose complete focus is on a small sample of the shampoo. I stand up from my chair and walk over to the lab table as he uses an eyedropper to put some liquid in there.

In high school, I failed chemistry. The tests he is doing are something that I have no knowledge about. I lean my elbows onto the table, moving my face as I see steam stream out of the small tube he is holding. "Stop thinking," Sherlock says to me suddenly, bringing me to actually look up at him. "It's distracting and it's annoying."

"How is it annoying when I am only admiring the way you are testing a bottle of shampoo?" I didn't realize how flirty that might have sounded until I say it out loud. He looks over at me, annoyed, judging how his grip tightened before on the test tube. I swallow thickly before asking him, "What are you doing anyway… with that?"

"Nothing that you would be interested in, I'm sure." Sherlock tells me, walking away from the table to go to this machine in the corner of the room. My eyebrow rises at that, but I follow him to the machine curiously. I glance as I pass the eyedropper he placed down before going over to the corner. Sherlock hunches his back over the machine, clearly not noticing me yet. Or… I think it's clear that he doesn't notice me yet. "Is there something that you want, Meredith?"

"I want to know what you're doing with that." I reply to him with a small smile on my face.

"I think I just told you that you would not be interested to even _know_." Sherlock tells me as I approach his side. He merely glances up at me.

I decide to challenge him, "Try me."

A curious expression comes on Sherlock's face and he glances between the machine and I. He pinches the skin in between his eyebrows and closes his eyes, as if he is gathering the patience to explain this to me. I wait for him patiently as he concentrates setting up the machine that he is about to use. "I am extracting the different components of the shampoo with a centrifuge and check the solubility—."

"You know what, you're right, I don't even think what you told me was English." I say, interrupting him. He looks at me carefully before going back to what he does best. His science. He lets a scoff escape from him. Instead of walking away from him, I stay by his side and watch him over his shoulder. He doesn't seem to be annoyed with it. If he is annoyed with it, he definitely doesn't show it. I watch what he called a centrifuge; we both watch it actually, as it extracts the different components before our very eyes. It actually is quite remarkable.

I start to him, still watching as the centrifuge is separating this by the liquid's solubility and whatever else it separates it by, "After this," he glances up at me briefly, "you test each component separately and figure out if one of them is poisonous." Sherlock stares at me for a moment before he tilts his chin up at me.

"That is what I'm planning on doing when I'm done with it, yes."

I admit to him, "That sounds tedious."

"It isn't if you know what you are doing." The centrifuge begins to slow down; my eyes look over at it with an eyebrow raised. "Where has John gone?" Sherlock asks me, finally looking around himself as if realizing John has gone. I look up from the centrifuge to see that he is genuinely confused about this. I keep forgetting that sometimes he doesn't even acknowledge the absence of John.

"To get coffee." I say to him slowly. "He left ten minutes ago, at most."

"Coffee would be great right now. Tell him that I'd like a cup. Black with two—."

"I'm sure he's going to get you a cup of coffee, Sherlock, and I'm sure he knows how you take it." I tell him cutting him off. "And now that he isn't here," it takes me a moment; it really is a split second decision. I don't even know why I am bringing this up again because last time I did, I just regretted it immediately after. This may be something that I will regret doing… again. But I'm curious. "Have you discovered anything new about me?"

"You are bringing this up now?" Sherlock asks me, focusing his attention on the machine that has just stopped. He takes the tube from the middle of the centrifuge, taps it a few times, before he moves away from there. My eyes follow him, but my feet don't. "Last time I believe I actually _offended_ you when I have told you what I have deduced."

"By now, I think now though that I'm used to you." I say to him, as if to urge him to go forth and unleash all that he knows about me, every single detail that he has found out. Sherlock doesn't even glance over at me. "Did you at least figure out my real name or my actual age, anything like that? We don't have to go deep into what I did then. You obviously deduced several things since the last time…"

"Your name isn't exactly hard to find if someone just looks up your hacking job on the Internet, Anne Taylor." Sherlock doesn't even look over to me. My eyes practically widen and I feel my grip tighten on the table by me. I wish I had that cup of coffee now to hide my face. I feel heat rise up to my cheeks and the cup would've been perfect to cover it. "Don't act _so _surprised." Sherlock says to me after a moment as he examines the test tube.

Reluctantly, I ask, "How long have you known?"

"I was bored one day."

"You always end up bored at least once a day."

"I've known about you for a week or so, Anne." How he says my name sends chills up my spine, but it is refreshing to be called Anne rather than Meredith. Meredith can be an old woman's name, or a stiff… politician's name. Anne… is my grandmother's name and… I actually like how Sherlock says it. He doesn't say it like his brother does. His brother holds an intimidating, almost threatening tone whenever I speak with him and he mentions my name. Like if I mess up, he'll use my name not only toward me. Sherlock… doesn't hold the intimidation in his tone. I am… comfortable with it. And that says a lot because the only person who calls me…

"Don't… don't call me that." I say to him quickly, bringing myself out of what I was thinking before. No, I'm not comfortable with him like that. The only person I am… _was_… comfortable with saying that is my ex-fiancé… _was_ my ex-fiancé. Sherlock is not he. Sherlock Holmes will never be an equivalent to him to me. I ask him, "Why haven't you said anything to me? You don't usually keep quiet about stuff like that?"

"You never asked." Sherlock gives me an elementary answer. He taps on the test tube before holding it up to the light. I cannot stop my jaw from shifting at that. "If it does help your wounded ego, I do not know as much as Mycroft seems to know."

"Mycroft knows everything about it, you're telling me that you aren't tempted to even know everything there is?"

"I refuse any attempt there is to try and reach Mycroft." He replies to me flatly. "Besides, if I want to know the truth of you, I would go about it on my own. I will not go through _him_, I thought you were smart enough to actually know that."

"Well… if I had him as a resource, I'll sure as hell use him." I mutter to myself. If I had Mycroft as a brother, I would have been out of so much shit that I have been through. "But… I—."

"Meredith?" John opens the door to the lab, carrying three coffees in a carton. I stop in the middle of my sentence to look over at him. He regards us with a look, almost seeming apologetic as if he has walked in on something that he shouldn't have walked in on. I step away from the centrifuge as I regard him with a slight nod. "Someone is looking for you outside." He says to me carefully. I tilt my head up at him curiously.

What? "Someone from Scotland Yard?" I ask him. It's obviously isn't someone that is from my team. Lestrade is at home, most likely arguing with his wife… or ex-wife and Donovan has the night off. Anderson doesn't give me the time of day. And if it were any of them, John would have stated it flat out. I know a couple of officers and I have made friends with DI Dimmock. But I don't think any of them would really _look _for me. I barely have any friends outside of work.

He shakes his head no. "Says she knows you before you moved to New York." That is impossible. It leaves me confused. Really confused. I feel Sherlock's eyes on me as I look at John. My eyebrows pinch together. "She's a nurse here. Her name is Betsy." Oh no…

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

Not.

_Her_.

I stare at him, forgetting for a moment that if I gape at him long enough I might as well be frozen like that. No, not… not… Betsy. I try to discredit myself, but how many people are really named Betsy? The case is really off of my mind right now. Of course, I talk about my past and she has to bloody come up. "Does Betsy have a last name, John?"

"I'm sure you know her last name already, _Meredith_, she is someone that you already know judging how you practically gaping at the name."

I nearly snap at him, "Shut up, Sherlock." I don't even look over at him, but I attempt at closing my mouth so I stop gaping at him.

"Hawkins?" John says, sounding unsure. I take a deep breath. Betsy Hawkins… I know exactly who Betsy Hawkins is. I spare a glance over at Sherlock, who has a smug look on his face. A smirk crept its way onto his features. "Do… do you know her?" John asks me reluctantly. I close my eyes before nodding my head at him.

"If you both excuse me." I say to them both, not really caring if they minded my absence.

"Oh, take as long as you need, _Meredith_." Sherlock says my name—my fake name with so much mockery that it makes my stomach churn. I grit my teeth behind my sudden, close-mouthed smile and walk away in a hurry. John holds my coffee out to me, which I take in my hand.

Betsy Hawkins… bloody hell, Betsy Hawkins is outside in the hallway. How in the world did she find me?

It doesn't matter now though. The door to the lab closes behind me, John enters it. I look down the hallway to see the woman who calls herself Betsy leaning against the wall. "Betsy…" I start to her slowly, my back hunching forward slightly as I dare myself to actually walk toward her. Her head slowly picks up. I take a deep breath through my nose when I realize it actually is Betsy Hawkins.

Betsy with her brown hair that is usually pulled in a tight bun and light blue eyes that make her look so innocent. Betsy with almost the same exact scrubs she wore while we were in uni. Her small, thin face has little makeup and a bright smile comes onto it. She doesn't look as young and innocent as she did during uni, but hell, her bright, perky little smile is still something that plagues my every being. How can someone be as perky as she can be all the time?

We have met while I was in uni. A friend of mine dared me to make friends with the freshman, sitting in our politics class. I didn't know what I was getting into then. "Anne… is that really you?" And I still don't know what I am getting into now. I stop in my place, turn my head around, and grip my cup tightly. I thank God in heaven that no one is in the hallway with us.

Betsy Hawkins… still is the naïve thing that has helped me after the hack job… She… out of everyone that was a part of it, knows my alias, knows my looks, and basically the details of the fake life I lived. The government never caught her—she never really had a part in it other than me giving her a story that I needed a new look. She helped me get my new look.

I didn't expect her to come… to actually come looking for me, nor did I expect to really run into her. But… as I take a sip of my coffee and brace myself for the massive amount of questions that may be pondered by her, I nod my head slowly at her. I swallow nervously as she suddenly lets out an excited squeal.

I feel almost numb as I accept a hug from her, trying to move my coffee away from her so it wouldn't spill.

* * *

_**I honestly just skimmed it while proofreading it; I'll most likely give it a better look-over in the morning. I want to apologize again for the lateness of the update. Not only have I had classes taking over my life, I also had trifling plot bunnies, trying to ruin my life. One of them I actually published… and if you want to check out that you can, it's a Loki/OC fic called Running Up a Hill. Thank you to everyone who has given me a review or even a favorite/follow. It means so much to me to see people are enjoying the story so far!**_

_**Hopefully, the next chapter won't be so long of a wait. Especially with how I ended it with Betsy at the end! See you next time ;)**_

_**~Tiana xoxo**_


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